Fugue (standard:science fiction, 37012 words)
Author: Saxon Violence	Added: Jan 05 2013	Views/Reads: 5586/3016	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man with no name struggles to reassemble his memories while the World Crumbles

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

consequence of someone doing lots of LSD-25 somewhere. Nonetheless, the 
neat little two-by-two card made it all seem so clinical and official. 

Bill started to put the neat little official looking card into his
billfold. It would be safe from loss or damage there. Then he realized 
that he'd forgotten to check his weight first—which was the main 
purpose of the whole exercise... 

The card told Bill that at a height of a smidgen over six feet, he
weighed three hundred and sixty-three pounds. He stared at the numbers 
in semi-incomprehension for a few moments. He could not come up with 
any more plausible alternate number, so he tentatively accepted the 
number on the card. 

He couldn't recall how much he'd weighed the last time he'd visited the
taciturn little scale—no matter how hard he tried. He vaguely felt that 
he was losing weight. He though that not too long ago, he'd been 
noticeably heavier. 

No matter how hard he tried though, he couldn't dredge up specific past
memories of weighing at the scale or weights or dates. He realized with 
a mild start, that he didn't even know what season it was, much less 
the date. He took a quick look at the card to find the date. 

Bill also thought that he'd lost a bunch of weight at least once before
in his life. Once again he couldn't dredge up specifics. 

He paused momentarily, when he got outside into the parking lot. He
wondered if he had a car, and how that he might identify it. A brief 
pat down of his pockets revealed no car key. Also, walking just seemed 
right. Since he had no idea where he was going, he decided to let his 
feet and his intuition guide him. It would be good Zen. 

*************** **************************** ***************** 

When his feet reached his home, he found that he lived in a reasonably
large single room, on the third floor of a rooming house. It was like 
the old fashioned boarding houses—sleeping rooms with a common restroom 
on each floor—but they didn't serve meals. Several of the other inmates 
greeted him with the casualness of long acquaintance. Many of the other 
boarders didn't appear quite right. 

To be fair, Bill supposed that he wasn't quite with it either, with such
gaping holes in his memory. He did remember a statement that he'd made 
on any number of occasions though. It made a good joke, because it 
sounded funny—even though Bill was firmly convinced of its 
truthfulness. 

“There are many types of insanity,” Bill said. “Many of them don't rule
out a happy and productive life. Being classified as ‘Crazy'—or worse 
yet, being confined to a mental institution creates all sorts of all 
but insoluble complications. So if you suspect that you may be crazy—by 
their admittedly subjective criteria—be very careful what you reveal 
about yourself.” 

Bill wasn't going to ignore his own advice by quizzing everyone about
the glitches in his hard drive. He was craftier than that. He did have 
his observing, and his deductive faculties in hype-drive though. 

“Who am I? How did I come to be here?” Bill asked himself. 

A moment later he added, “Hey WOW Man! It is like: Really Man, be for
Real! I like restated some of the Classical Questions of Philosophy. 
I'll bet that Thoreau and Aristotle and Lao Tse didn't wander around in 
a muddled fugue though. Heisenberg and Kant might have though...” 

************************************************************************
**** 


Chapter Two 

Steve was dressed in black BDUs, like always. He'd set up a plywood
target at one end of the hallway, and was practicing throwing his stars 
again. 

He insisted upon calling the stars “shuriken” even though Bill had told
him several times that the stars were “shaken”. Properly speaking, 
“shuriken” were throwing spikes sharpened on one or both ends. 

Bill couldn't have told anyone where he came up with that piece of
arcane trivia. Nonetheless, Steve's improper terminology grated on 
Bill. 

“Hold up, I want to go to my room now,” He told Steve. 

He had a healthy respect for Steve. The man was a chucklehead. Such
people could cause more death and destruction by accident, than most 
folks could achieve by design. 

Shaken were illegal of course. Almost anything that could be considered
a weapon was either illegal, or very tightly regulated. That's why 
Steve took his target practice indoors—as if there weren't more than 
enough snitches in the boarding house to keep the Laws fully informed. 

The Laws were pretty busy tracking down all the illegal firearms—and
shooting it out with the occasional die hard—to go too far out of their 
way to bust chuckleheads for possessing shaken. 

That wouldn't prevent them from busting Steve just for “fits and
giggles” if their business called them into the boarding house. The 
Laws were subject to come calling anytime since for all practical 
purposes, the Fourth Amendment was dead. 

Bill wondered absently, why Steve didn't join one of the underground
Dojos. All he ever seemed to do was waste large chunks of his 
disability on shaken, brass knuckles, nunchaku, and even more obscure 
weapons—and then he stood around in the hallway flailing away with 
them. 

Then again, if Bill were running an underground Dojo, he'd have been
most reluctant to allow Steve to join. 

Bill shut the door to his room. He was momentarily relieved to be out of
easy reach of an errant shaken. When he studied the magazines and 
newspapers though, he felt a vague but urgent uneasiness return and 
grow, deep down inside of himself. He wasn't quite sure why, but he 
trusted his instincts. 

He'd been researching diligently over the last couple weeks. Magazines
and newspapers made the tacit assumption that one had been both 
conscious and making at least a token effort to stay reasonably up to 
date on current events for the last decade. Bill hadn't. Things were 
more than a little confusing at first—even now, for that matter—but 
he'd persevered and gotten a reasonable idea of the state of the Union. 
It sucked! 

NA was sweeping the country—or the world for that matter. No one knew
what caused it. Most scientists thought that a virus caused it. Some 
thought it was caused by prions—similar, and perhaps based on the Mad 
Cow prions. Of course no one had even demonstrated that prions even 
existed but that didn't prevent wild speculation. 

NA stood for Nouveau Alzheimer's. No one was sure that NA was linked to
classical Alzheimer's. The symptoms appeared very much the same though. 


Three million people aged thirty and below, were currently in
institutions with premature senility severe enough that they were 
completely incapable of taking care of themselves. There were seven 
million aged forty-five and younger. 

The economic consequences, the drain on the health care system and the
general panic the disease inspired were enormous. Why plan for the 
future, when there was an excellent chance that you'd get NA? 

Very few people seemed to get the disease ‘till their mid-to-late
twenties. The percentage affected went up sharply each year of age 
until about thirty. Most folks who were going to contract the extremely 
early onset version had gotten it by the age of thirty. Once the 
symptoms became noticeable, the descent into total senility was very 
rapid. 

The next big spike seemed to come when people approached their late
thirties. The progression to total incapacity was noticeably slower 
with the later group, but still rapid by Classical Alzheimer's 
standards. 

Once again, if someone didn't get it by their mid-forties, then they
were unlikely to get it until their sixties—when the rate of 
Alzheimer's for people in their mid-sixties was three times higher than 
it had been. There was no way to distinguish the Nouveau Alzheimer's 
from Classical Alzheimer's at that age. No one was even positive that 
there was a difference. Either way, the results were the same. 

There were over one-and-a-half million cases of Tuberculosis that was
immune to every known antibiotic. One in five people were reputed to 
test positive for HIV. To say “Antibiotic Resistant” Syphilis or 
Gonorrhea was a redundancy. 

Gasoline was at seven dollars and thirty-five cents a gallon. Congress
had passed an amendment canceling the Second Amendment. The President 
had passed martial law and nationalized all the police forces under one 
central agency. 

Droughts and famines were the order of business for much of the World.
Although the US wasn't exempt from drought, they had the technology and 
resources to largely cushion the impact—through irrigation, genetically 
engineered crops and other measures. 

The fact that much of the United State's grain was now used to produce
ethanol for domestic fuel, worsened the impact of the crop failures in 
many third world countries and incited more hate propaganda against 
America. 

Bill hadn't been keeping very good records of his own actions. There was
enough documentation to show him that he'd been walking five miles per 
night, for some time. He was on a three-pints-of-milk-per-day diet, 
along with several multivitamins, and little else. 

He treated himself to a very occasional can of salmon or Spam or corned
beef. Every few days he ate an orange. He also bought himself three 
non-diet soft drinks each night, during the course of his walk. 

Three twelve-ounce cans had three hundred sixty calories. It was worth
the calorie penalty, to keep himself motivated. The Cokes were a groovy 
carrot. 

He'd been losing a bit over four pounds per week on his diet. He wasn't
quite sure what he was trying to prepare for, but his studies convinced 
him that he needed to speed up his schedule. 

He added a mile-and-a-half in the early morning, and a bunch of
calisthenics. He bought a set of push-up bars, and found that when 
raised high enough that his belly didn't smack the floor, he could gut 
out five or six shaky push-ups. Astonishing for a man of his weight. 

Bill bought an abdomen wheel, a set of spring grips, a wrist-roller and
a set of steel spring exercisers. Although he couldn't have explained 
why, a strong grip became an obsession. He would squeeze the grips 
hundreds of times daily. Then he'd stick a quarter in between the 
grips, and see how long he could hold it. A very slight, imperceptible 
weakening of the grip would cause the quarter to drop to the floor. 

Then he'd turn the grips around, and work them with only his index
fingers. He felt that he especially needed extra strength in those 
fingers—though he didn't consciously realize that those were his 
trigger fingers. 

He'd roll his wrist roller up and then roll it down dozens of times per
day. While he did his wrist-roller exercises, he thought about an old 
movie that he'd watched once, called “Hannie Calder.” He remembered a 
man giving Hannie an improvised wrist-roller and telling her to apply 
herself diligently. 

He knew that he'd known about, and used wrist-rollers long before he'd
seen the movie. He couldn't have told anyone that Hannie was 
strengthening her fingers and wrists to be a gunfighter. His memory was 
very scattered and incomplete. 

The springs weren't good for much, except to work the rear deltoid. He
wasn't too disappointed, because he'd known that's about all they were 
good for. Nonetheless, a strong rear deltoid is a good thing, and it 
can be a rather difficult muscle to work. 

He also managed to do a partial curl and a partial triceps extension
with the springs. He figured that he was far enough out of condition 
that even partial exercises had value. 

**************** ************************* ******************* 

Bill wracked his brain, trying to figure out his own situation. He
didn't have any form of Alzheimer's. As Alzheimer's robs someone of his 
memory, the disease also obscures the fact that the memory is failing. 
Someone who is aware that his memory is failing is not suffering from 
Alzheimer's. 

He remembered a movie called: “Memento”, about a man with brain damage.
He lacked the ability to transfer his short-term memory into long-term 
memory. He'd largely had to start all over again every fifteen seconds. 


That wasn't Bill's problem either. He could remember everything since
his awakening several weeks ago at the scale, in considerable detail. 
Everything before that was a grand muddle though. 

He'd considered the idea that his memory got swept clean every so often
but he didn't think so. He'd started keeping a very detailed daily 
journal, in an old cipher that had been used since the time of the War 
Between the States. It wouldn't frustrate a cryptologist for long. It 
did prevent a casual snooper from learning anything. 

What fascinated Bill was that he'd used the old cipher long enough, that
he could write it as easy as he'd print regular letters by hand. He'd 
probably been in the habit of keeping such a coded journal for years. 

************ *********************** ******************** 

As Bill went about dieting, doing his exercises, researching and keeping
his journals, a vague concept kept nagging at the back of his mind. The 
concept was a “Bug-out Bag.” He wasn't sure exactly what a Bug-out Bag 
was; but he felt a strong urge to put one together. 

Steve turned him on to the nearest Army Surplus store. His first trip
there, Bill had bought a medium-sized ALICE Pack, a couple quart 
canteens and canteen cups, a couple of ponchos, a poncho liner and an 
old fashioned entrenching tool. He knew somehow, that he didn't like 
the folding delta handles. 

On subsequent trips, Bill bought a Kabar knife and a couple whetstones,
a couple Buck folders, a couple wool blankets, several magnesium fire 
starters and a miniature pick. He also picked up a small double-edged 
Marbles axe—though he thought the price was rather extravagant. 

Money didn't seem to be much of a problem. Apparently he'd been
squirreling away big chunks of his disability for years. His intuition 
led him to a loose piece of molding in his room, with a clever little 
cache with a nice big stack of twenty-dollar bills in it. 

He picked up some of his other Bug-out gear other places. He got an
eight-by-ten foot tarpaulin at Harbor Freight. He bought three two-inch 
by eleven-inch long pieces of PVC at True Value, along with enough 
hardware and pipe-dope to put a screw-on cap on each end. He filled 
them with long spaghetti pasta. He liked his noodles long, and didn't 
want them broken. 

Bill stored a number of high protein and/or high-energy foods into his
BOB as the spirit moved him. He collected a set of nested cans, to make 
a hobo cooking set. 

*********** ****************************** ************** 

Seven weeks after his awakening and five weeks after radically
increasing his exercise routine, Bill was down to three hundred and 
twenty-seven pounds. He could do a dozen push-ups on his bars—much 
stricter than his early attempts had been. He was starting to feel some 
of his muscle tone and flexibility returning. He was almost satisfied 
with the contents of his BOB—though he couldn't say what it yet lacked. 


Progress had been made, but he felt that he wasn't progressing quickly
enough. Two things would speed his progress—gym time, and some anabolic 
steroids. Gyms were still legal, but steroids weren't. Bill picked his 
gym carefully. By the third week, he'd talked one of the muscle-heads 
into introducing him to his supplier. 

Long term, steroids were a bad risk. For someone in Bill's condition,
trying desperately to get into shape for the imminent End Of The World 
As We Know It, a few weeks use was a fairly good risk—at least Bill 
thought so... 

Wait a moment. Did he just think that? TEOTWAWKI? He'd better keep his
mouth firmly closed on that thought. Survivalists of any variety were 
strictly Persona Non Grata with the powers that be. 

Now how did he know that? Five minutes earlier, he couldn't have told
someone what a Survivalist was, let alone that the Hobnails didn't like 
them. Now he realized that he was a Survivalist and that he'd been 
preparing for TEOTWAWKI. 

***************** ******************** ****************** 

Ten weeks of fairly heavy steroid use and some frantic iron-pumping had
seen Bill's weight drop to two ninety-seven, while his strength had 
more than doubled. There had been a price though. His face and back was 
covered with acne, and his joints ached almost constantly. 

One of the dangers of steroid use was that muscle strength could grow
much faster than the strength of the tendons and ligaments—leaving one 
injury prone. Bill was reasonably sure that he'd never used steroids 
before. He was also fairly sure that he'd done years of heavy lifting. 

Regaining levels that one had already attained is generally much faster
and easier than building up to new levels. Also there was at least some 
residual strength in the ligaments and tendons. That had partially 
protected him from the consequences of working up to a four hundred and 
fifty pound bench for a single and four hundred and fifty on the Squat 
for twenty repetitions. 

Nonetheless, ten weeks was a long run on the steroids. Time to cycle
off, and try to keep the consequences of coming down to a bare minimum. 


While he still had full strength, and the rather arrogant assertiveness
that the drugs brought, there was something else Bill needed to attend 
to. Time to find a black market Gun dealer—not that there was any other 
kind of Gun dealer nowadays... 

************************************************************************
*********** 


Chapter Three 

Bill was sitting at the desk in his room, trying to concentrate. Bob and
Ed the half-wit were carrying on a lively discussion in the hallway and 
although Bill had his door closed, he couldn't help hearing it all. The 
knob-gobblers had him upset enough, that he felt that he might jump 
through his own anus and disappear. 

Wait a moment! Was that psychotic ideation? Well no, he knew very well
that the action wasn't physically possible. It was a metaphor—a 
hyperbole, if you will... 

Bob worked for a construction company. He always wore his brown
uniform—on duty, and off. They let him drive the company truck home at 
night. The best Bill could tell, Bob functioned mainly as a gopher. His 
position was much like a trustee's. Bob was convinced that he was some 
sort of assistant foreman though. 

Ed rode a bicycle remarkably like Peewee Herman's. He had a waspish
disposition and he wanted to be left alone. Most folks left him alone 
since a simple “good morning” would get you a fierce cursing. 

Bob was only marginally smarter than Ed though. He lived with the
persistent illusion that he and Ed were friends. 

“Ed, how much do tomatoes cost per pound?” Bob asked. 

“Bob, yoo thupid haf-wit! Why don't you weave me awone? How in hell
would I know what tomatoes cost?” 

Ed was tongue-tied. 

“No Ed, I want to know how much tomatoes cost, per pound?” 

“Leave me alone!” 

“Tomatoes Ed.” 

“If you don't leave me alone, I'll slap you!” 

“Per pound Ed, per pound...” 

They went on that way interminably. First Bob would say “Tomatoes.” His
tone seemed to say that he could understand Ed's hostility, had Ed 
thought that he was asking about oranges, turnips, parsnips or 
dingle-berries, but that in this context, “tomatoes” made it a 
perfectly reasonable and inoffensive question. 

Then Bob would say, “Per pound.” Once again, he seemed to imply that
asking the price per kilogram, ounce, or carat would have been 
offensive indeed, but that “per pound” made the question innocuous. 

Finally Ed put an end to the chuckle-fest by taking his bicycle into his
room and slamming his door closed hard enough to shake Bill's fillings. 


Steve was standing out in the hallway shadow boxing. He had a set of
brass knuckles on each hand. At eight ounces each, the brass knuckles 
probably added enough resistance to help the muscle tone—a bit. Bill 
had to admit that Steve's boxing form was decent. 

Bill steeled himself and walked up to Steve. 

“Take the knuckles off. I want to show you something. Here let's put
this one totally to one side. Now put the other in your jacket pocket. 
Try to put your hand in the knuckle and bring it out quickly, as if for 
a punch. 

“Do not actually hit me. This is a demonstration.” 

Bill got up too close, in Steve's face. He trapped his hand in the
jacket pocket early on. He neither threw nor tripped Steve. He simply 
used very mild hand pressure to waltz the man all over the hallway. He 
used no more pressure than one would use on a dancing partner. The 
whole scheme worked because he got Steve off his center of gravity and 
kept him there. 

As he released Steve unexpectedly, he said, “Quick now, come out with
the knuckles.” 

Steve, who had never managed to get his fingers into the holes during
the unexpected dance, fumbled yet some more. 

“Come into my room for a moment,” He said to Steve. 

He took the brass knuckles and clamped them in a small Pana-Vise. He
left the bridge between the middle finger and the ring finger but he 
ground the other two bridges out with a Dremel Tool. 

“It will still be plenty strong but you'll have a good bit more room for
your fingers. That will make it so much easier and faster to slip them 
on. Tarnation! I wish that I had a Milling machine. This would go so 
much faster. We'll get him done though.” 

Bill let Steve try on the altered brass knuckle. 

“It's way better!” Steve enthused. 

Bill took the weapon back from him. 

“I need to borrow this for awhile,” He told Steve in a tone that allowed
no argument. 

“You can have it, if you'll fix me a couple more like that,” Steve said.


“Okay, but not today. I'm off to see the Wizard.” 

**************** ****************************** ************** 

People who'd sell steroids could put you in touch with someone who sold
hard drugs. Someone who sold hard drugs could put you in touch with 
someone who sold Guns. Thus one unreasonable prohibition led to a total 
lack of respect for the law, and a thriving black market. 

Bill had long ruminated about Kurt Saxon's famous dictum: 

“When someone tries to buy Guns with gold, when the transaction is over,
one party will have the Guns and the gold.” 

That sounded remarkably cynical and clever. In actuality though, it
wasn't true. There was a certain honor among outlaws. Baring outrageous 
provocation or potential for profit, most of them were willing to trade 
value for value—most of the time. It behooved a man to be cautious 
though. 

Bill thought that Kurt Saxon was another chucklehead. The man admitted
to being a former Nazi and a former Satanist. He'd also managed to blow 
all the fingers off his left hand, bollixing with a pipe bomb. Still, 
even a blind hog finds an acorn every now and again. 

*************** ***************************** **************** 

The “gangsta” dude had on an oversized sweat suit. He had gold teeth and
a big auto pistol in a shoulder holster—probably a nine-millimeter. At 
first he tried the gangsta rap with Bill. But after a few moments, he 
dropped the pose. When he wasn't playing a role, his voice had the 
mellow deep tones of a Shakespearean actor. 

Somehow he flashed on the fact that Bill wasn't taken in and he'd
abruptly dropped the act. He'd told Bill that the gold teeth were 
removable fakes. 

“It's for business purposes,” He explained. “How would people recognize
me without my disguise?” 

He led Bill into the basement of a deserted factory building. While the
upper floors were tumbledown, the basement was well maintained. There 
was an iron door with a couple AK bearing sentries taking passwords in 
a vestibule inside. 

Inside was a space roughly fifty by fifty. On one side of the room were
Lathes and Milling machines. On the other side were long rows of 
hardwood-topped worktables, with plenty of vises and reloading presses. 


The gunstore proper was in a little twenty by twenty-five foot alcove,
in the corner most distant from the entrance. 

The shop wasn't jam-crammed full of firearms. Nonetheless, there was a
respectable number of Guns. Bill was a bit surprised to see that the 
handguns were displayed in glass cases—just like a real Gunstore. 

“I had a Gunstore before the ban. After the ban, I still have a
Gunstore,” a grinning dude wearing a shop apron told him. 

“The only difference is that now I can be arrested for minding my own
business. Most of the display cases are from my old shop.” 

Bill decided that he liked the man, as he shook his proffered hand.
Still, he didn't trust anyone without reservation. There was no sense 
in dropping your pants and bending over. If someone was going to take 
advantage, Bill meant to make them work hard for it at least. 

He saw row after row of Glocks and Berettas, Sigs and Walthers. All
except the Berettas had plastic frames. Bill sighed wearily. Then he 
saw something across the room. 

“Let me see the nickel Model 27,” Bill said. 

The N Frame Smith and Wesson .357 had an eight and three-eights inch
barrel—a bit larger than Bill wanted, but the Gun was a beauty. 
Someone, doubtless someone like Bill, who never hammer cocked a double 
action revolver, had bobbed the hammer. The barrel was Mag-Na-Ported, 
and the butt had been cut down to K Frame round butt configuration. 

Bill had large hands, but he preferred the round butt to all others—as
did a noticeable number of other folks, with many different hand sizes. 


Now Bill was not at all sure that he could have named a brand of Gun, or
have even a clue what a Model 27 might be—if someone had asked him 
before he'd laid eyes on this one. He definitely couldn't have told 
someone how to check a used revolver for serviceability. 

But once he had the long barreled .357 in his hand, he deftly opened the
cylinder. He pushed the extractor rod a few times, to assure himself 
that it worked freely. Then he spun the open cylinder slowly. He peered 
down the bore, using a thumbnail to reflect light down the bore. He 
tried the action. He was pleased that someone had taken the time to put 
in double action only lockwork. 

“I'll let you have that for twenty-seven hundred,” The dealer said. 

“Why so cheap?” Bill asked. 

“Nobody wants a revolver anymore, except old guys like you.” 

Bill was a bit taken aback by that. It wasn't vanity. He simply had not
consciously considered his age. He thought of himself as a regular 
person. Old people were a special subset of humanity that he felt no 
particular allegiance to. 

As he thought about the long mane of silver hair and the crow's feet at
the corner of the eyes of the man who always stared back at him from 
the mirror, he was forced to conclude that he was indeed old. How 
peculiar. He took the time to reflect that his gym exploits were even 
more remarkable in that context. 

The dealer took his hesitation as a sign that Bill thought the price was
too high. 

“I've got a nice vintage Safariland shoulder holster for the Gun. I also
have three speed loaders for it. I'll throw all that in, and a hundred 
and fifty rounds of 158 Grain Jacketed Hollow Points—all for 
twenty-five hundred.” 

“Let me see the single action,” Bill said. 

“That's a four-and-three-quarter-inch EMF .357,” The dealer told Bill.
“You know that they don't have a transfer bar—gotta carry the hammer 
down on an empty chamber.” 

Bill wondered if he looked stupid, since the man felt it was necessary
to tell him such basic facts. He didn't take offence though. Too much 
data is rarely the problem that too little is. 

Bill placed the EMF beside the Smith and Wesson. The three Safariland
speed loaders; three fifty round boxes of ammo; and the Safariland 
shoulder holster were all lying forgotten for the moment on the 
counter. 

He got the clerk to bring him a double barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. It
had eighteen inch barrels, a padded but youth-sized stock and it was 
coated in frosted hard chrome. Bill haggled for enough rounds of 00 
Buckshot and Slugs to fill a fifty-five round nylon bandoleer, along 
with a box of high base number sixes. 

“How much for all that?” Bill asked, gesturing at everything
inclusively. 

The man was a bit surprised. He hadn't really expected to sell more than
one Gun. 

“Four thousand for all of them.” 

“That's one hell of a bargain in today's money.” 

“Tell you the truth, I don't think I'll ever sell the .357s, if you
don't buy them. Most folks think the .357 is obsolete.” 

“Chuckleheads!” Bill Remarked. 

************ *************************** **************** 

Maybe setting Steve up to loan him the brass knuckles hadn't been all
that inspired an idea. Now Steve was convinced that Bill was some sort 
of martial arts master. He'd firmly made up his mind that Bill had 
something to teach him. He was determined that Bill was going to teach 
him. 

Steve had settled in for the long haul. He was respectful, and rarely
obtrusive. But he did occasionally remind Bill that he was patiently 
waiting to begin his apprenticeship. He had even started calling his 
stars “shaken.” 

Bill was forced to revise his opinion of Steve somewhat. Steve was
young, and he was ignorant but he knew how to be both polite and 
persistent. He wanted to learn very badly. 

Too bad that Bill wasn't a martial arts expert. All that he really knew
about the martial arts was that most folks over complicated them. Learn 
the basics of human anatomy. Learn which way the major joints are meant 
to move and the places in their range of motion where the leverage 
worked against them. Trap a client's joint where it was weak, and force 
it against the grain. Simple really. 

Learn where the body is weak. Learn how to pack a reasonable amount of
force into your blows. Strike the client's weak points—again, very 
simple. 

Learn how the body balances itself. Strive to keep your balance, while
trying to force the client off his. 

There were a few other rules, but they were all very simple—sometimes
difficult to implement—but simple in concept. 

Come to think of it, maybe he was a martial arts expert. Maybe he'd
start turning Steve onto a few techniques, while testing his integrity. 
It might come in handy to have someone that he could trust guarding his 
back. 

Guarding it from what though...? 

************************************************************************
***** 


Chapter Four 

“Did you get the stuff that I told you to?” Bill asked Steve. 

When Steve indicated that he had, Bill invited him to bring his gear and
join him in his room. 

“Take your shoes and socks off,” Bill told him. 

Steve was puzzled, but he complied. 

“Can you balance on one foot? Lift your other leg a bit higher. There
you go. Now close your eyes tightly and give me a slow count of ten.” 

Steve could stand on one foot quite readily. When he tried to balance
with his eyes closed though, he'd lose balance and have to let the 
other foot down—usually by the count of three. 

“How can you fight, when you can't even stand up?” Bill asked him. 

Bill fished around in the sack Steve had brought. He opened the plastic
sack full of marbles, and counted out forty-eight of them. He put the 
marbles on the floor and placed an empty number ten can on the table. 

“I want you to practice this three or four times a day. Don't do it much
more often. I don't want you to get burnt-out on it. Stand on your left 
foot like so. Pick one marble up with your toes. Bring your right foot 
up to your left hand. Take the marble with your left hand. Put it in 
the can. 

“Try as much as possible, to balance on one foot without putting the
other foot down ‘till you've picked up all the marbles. When you've 
picked up all forty-eight marbles, turn around and pick the marbles up 
with your other foot. 

“Each time you do it, alternate which foot that you start with. When you
can consistently pick up all forty-eight marbles without your marble 
foot touching the ground a single time, let me know.” 

“How long should it take me to master this exercise?” Steve inquired. 

“Don't rush and don't obsess. It will take as long as it takes. I don't
particularly care if you ever master it. The point is that by doing it, 
you will build balance and ankle strength.” 

Bill went on to show Steve how to use the wrist-roller and the spring
grips. (He'd had Steve buy his own. No way that he wanted Steve using 
his room as a gym.) Then he showed him how to work his rear delts with 
the cable exerciser. 

He impressed on Steve the importance of a strong grip. Just to make it
more interesting, he told Steve to stand on one foot while doing 
wrist-roller work or using the steel springs. He also had Steve buy 
himself a top quality jump rope, and told him to work up to a half-hour 
at a time. 

Since he firmly believed that fighting was largely a matter of
understanding the human body, he located Steve a few books to buy and 
study: A coloring book to help nurses learn basic anatomy, a couple of 
basic books on kinesiology and a few Art books on drawing the human 
body. 

“You can't tell me that you truly understand the structure of something
and then turn around and tell me that you can't draw it,” He'd told 
Steve. “Basic drawing techniques are fairly simple. The rest is 
familiarity with what you're drawing. I want you to become very 
familiar with the human body—particularly the muscles and bones. 

“Now you should have plenty to keep you busy for at least the next six
months. Don't bother me ‘till then. If you're not interested enough to 
be a self-starter, then you're not worth me bothering with.” 

****************** ************************* ***************** 

Bill was not at all sure that things would hold together for another six
months. Gasoline went up a few cents on the gallon almost weekly. There 
was talk of rationing in the near future. 

Bill remembered a golden free market axiom: While governments may not
know how to create surpluses, they certainly know how to create 
shortages and a thriving black market—simply impose rationing. 

Inflation was around thirty percent and creeping upward. Unemployment
was said to be hovering close to seventeen percent—but most folks 
thought that the government cooked the figures to conceal even more 
alarming numbers. 

There were always job openings in the healthcare field: orderlies,
nurse's aides, LPNS, RNs—even janitors to work in Nursing Homes. The 
jobs went begging. Most people found it too depressing to work around 
the NA victims. 

Every month there were more cases than the government had predicted.
Bill had become convinced that both the actual number of cases, and the 
future forecasts were both adjusted, just as with the unemployment 
figures, to reduce the despair. 

There were more and more cases of violence against the senile. People
had started calling them “Zombies”. They weren't of course. They 
weren't contagious. They didn't bite, nor did they crave human flesh. 

Fact is, all they did was sit and stare vacantly into space. If someone
didn't take the time to feed and hydrate them, they would stare 
unconcernedly until dehydration or starvation claimed them. 

Calling them zombies though, served to dehumanize—even demonize—them in
the eyes of many. There was increasing talk about practicing 
large-scale euthanization on the senile. 

Bill was willing to concede that the great imaginary entity known as
“Society” might not be able to afford to continue to care for all the 
disabled much longer. 

However, a civilization that committed itself to mass-murders on that
scale had already signed its own execution order. Six of one—a 
half-dozen of the other... 

*************** **************************** ***************** 

Steve persevered in his lessons. So at about the three month point, Bill
went back to see the Gunstore dude—who he learned, went by the street 
name of “Jeffrey”—and had him locate an old Webley Tempest and plenty 
of pellets. Pellet guns weren't illegal, but it was hard to find good 
quality ones. Bill didn't want to invite any scrutiny. 

Why would someone go out of his way to order an expensive and accurate
pellet Gun? He wouldn't be using it as firearm trainer, now would he? 

At the six-month point, Bill took Steve to see Jeffery so Steve could
buy himself a Gun. Given some advanced notice, Jeffrey had managed to 
find Steve a nice stainless steel Ruger Security-Six .357 Magnum with a 
four-inch barrel, and a nice custom set of smooth walnut grips. 

Steve even got a chance to fire a few live rounds on Jeffrey's
improvised underground range. They were looking at a .38 Special Smith 
and Wesson Model sixty—a stainless version of the five shot, two-inch 
barreled Model thirty-six—the “Chief's Special”. There was also a 
Marlin .357 lever action Carbine that someone had custom converted to a 
takedown. 

Neither Steve nor Bill had the money for either. Nonetheless, Jeffrey
enjoyed showing off some of his better pieces. Besides, it would give 
each of them something to go home and start saving for. 

Just as they were about to say their “good-byes”, a breaching charge
blew the big metal door off its hinges. One of the guards was able to 
return fire. He fired round after round from his AK-47 through the 
breached doorway. He'd dropped several of the masked; black clothed 
invaders and had fired his way almost through his third thirty-round 
magazine, when a grenade took him out. 

“It is always a good day to die,” Bill said calmly. 

“It's not time to die yet. There's a hidden back-way out of here. Grab
that stuff. Y'all might as well have it as the feds—the nasty 
knob-gobblers,” Jeffrey shouted. 

******************** ****************** ********************** 

Bill had taken the time to thoroughly learn the neighborhood on his
frequent walks. He led Steve through a series of circuitous routes that 
only began to start leading them back home after they'd gone far out of 
their way. A couple of times Bill had to cuff Steve impatiently when he 
balked at laying down on the damp grass, or low-crawling beneath a 
sticker-bush. There simply wasn't time for debate. 

Finally, when Bill was fairly sure they'd managed to lose any would-be
followers, he took the time to confer with Steve. 

“I want to go home,” Steve said with every ounce of conviction that he
could muster. 

“I know, but first we have to be double-sure that we aren't being
followed. It'd be a bitch to have them follow us home. Stay cool. You 
did well tonight. Got you a couple extra Guns too—for free!” 

They wandered nonchalantly out of a yard with six-foot high shrubbery.
They strolled to McDonalds, where the burgers were made largely of soy 
in the modern world, but where the milkshakes were still made of real 
milk—at least so they claimed. Then they went to a bar for a couple 
drinks. 

Bill doubted the wisdom of too much ethanol under the circumstances, but
it was one more opportunity to try to spot any possible tale. Bill 
bought a bottle of J&B Scotch to take with him—for reasons that were 
obscure to him. When he got home though, he realized why he'd bought 
the metal hip flasks for his B.O.B. 

*********** ****************************** ******************* 

News of the raid filled the news for the next few days but then someone
set off a trio of very dirty suitcase nukes in New York City and twice 
that many in Los Angeles. 

At the same time someone released some fairly large amounts of nerve gas
in Miami and Portland Oregon. Of course panic was responsible for far 
more deaths than all the blasts, lethal gas and radioactive fallout 
combined could have possibly achieved—even in the affected areas. 

There were a few scattered incidents all over America, of snipers taking
pot shots at semi-drivers. That was enough to scare a considerable 
number of drivers into pulling their rigs into the nearest truck stop, 
and hunkering down. 

The fabric was stretched to the limits already. With each new incident,
things started ripping apart even faster. 

Bill sat and watched the news on his little Thirteen-inch color TV. It
had all the fascination of watching a slow-motion demolition of an old 
high-rise. Yes, it would have been an excellent time for someone to 
Didi-Mau; split; Bug-out or to get the Hell out of Dodge. 

That is, if someone had anywhere to go. 

Wait a minute!!! 

Bill realized that he did have somewhere to go. He had a nice retreat
prepared in Eastern Kentucky. It was one hell of a thing to have let 
slip his mind! 

The bugging out would have been far easier several hours ago. Anyway, it
would be dark soon. Valparaiso wasn't that large a town—wait a 
minute—was he in Valparaiso? He hadn't realized... 

Anyway, he had a partner trained well enough to be an asset. He'd just
come off the worst of the crash from his third course of steroids. He 
was down to his fighting weight of two-seventy—so that was his fighting 
weight... 

He had two revolvers and a double-barreled shotgun. He had a nicely
equipped BOB. It was time to go. 

Steve lived right down the hall but knocking on his door would get
everyone's attention. He decided to call him on the phone instead. 

“Steve, get your stuff together. It's time for us to leave. I got a
retreat way out in the country,” He said into the phone. 

Bill had his Guns fairly well hidden. That had seemed the wisest course
of action at the time. But before he could dig his Guns out, he was 
surprised to hear a key being inserted into his lock. His door slammed 
open. 

There stood Ed the Half-wit—only Ed didn't look half-witted anymore. He
was wearing a dark brown BDU Uniform that looked like it had been 
tailored and starched. He wore a brown beret jauntily cocked to one 
side, and he was cradling an H&K MP5 with one of the five-inch long 
suppressors on the barrel. 

Bill was durn-near certain that the suppressor wouldn't come anywhere
near being a true “Silencer”, but it would cut both recoil and 
muzzle-blast a great deal. It really didn't matter. Bill was far more 
concerned about the bullets he expected to be headed his way soon, than 
he was about any hypothetical muzzle blast. 

Bob backed up Ed. He also had one of the tailored brown uniforms, but he
was holding a Remington Witness Protection shotgun—one with a 
plow-handle grip and a fourteen-inch barrel. Bob was such a skinny 
shike-poke that notwithstanding the gravity of the situation; Bill 
couldn't help but think that the man looked like Barney Fife. 

Ed wasn't lisping now, and he didn't sound at all tongue-tied as he
addressed Bill. 

“This has been interesting and we've been getting some fascinating data,
but with everything going to hell in a hand-basket, it is time to tie 
up loose ends,” Ed said. 

Ed started to bring the MP-5 to his shoulder, in preparation for a
single aimed shot. Bill gathered himself to rush Ed. Ed would probably 
go for a headshot, but if he made the mistake of aiming at the torso, 
Bill didn't believe that he could put enough of the piss-ant nine 
millimeters into him fast enough to keep Bill from ripping his throat 
out... 

************************************************************************
********** 


Chapter Five 

All of Bill's mental processes were in hyper-drive. Ed seemed to be
raising the machine pistol in a sort of jerky slow motion. Then Bill 
heard a flat slapping sound and Ed's eyes crossed momentarily. He was 
standing a little to one side of Bill, so Bill could see that he had a 
throwing star firmly stuck in the back of his head. 

Some of Steve's stars were simple pieces of stamped sheet metal, but
this one had been machined out of three-sixteenths inch steel. It was 
comparatively heavy. Nonetheless, it was an extraordinarily powerful 
throw, to have it stick into a man's skull—even just barely. 

Even so, though shaken might have had minimal stopping power—it had
beaucoup distracting power. Ed jerked his head around to try to see 
what the hell had just smacked him. He looked just in time to see Steve 
ram a Katana through the small of Bob's back. 

The blade neatly skewered Bob's right kidney, and since the angle was
somewhat inward, a foot of the blade protruded just a hair to the right 
of Bob's navel. Steve kept barreling in. He hit Bob with what would 
have been called a very hard example of clipping, had he been playing 
football. 

Steve kept his grip on the Katana and rotated it around several times,
as if trying to cut out a core. Then he jacked the handle up and down 
like a water pump handle. 

Bill had no time to watch Steve's Mall-Ninja Dance of Death. He had
problems of his own. He grabbed the H&K's suppressor with his left 
hand. He grabbed up the Cold Steel Special Forces Shovel off his desk. 
He brought the edge of the entrenching tool down on Ed's head at least 
a dozen times. 

He was hitting as hard as he possibly could. In all probability, the
last eight or nine blows were superfluous. Still, he didn't intend to 
let go of the suppressor ‘till he was doubly sure that his client had 
full satisfaction. 

As Bill caught his breath, he realized that he'd regained another small
piece of his memory. The worn, second-hand shovel was a Special Forces 
Shovel, based on the Russian Spetznatz Shovel and manufactured by Cold 
Steel. 

Bill did a fast but thorough search of Ed. He confiscated everything
that looked like a firearm. Ed had three extra magazines for the H&K. 
He had a parkerized Beretta in a nylon drop-leg holster along with a 
couple extra magazines. 

There was a wallet-like carrier in Ed's left hip pocket. It had two
extra Beretta magazines and curiously enough, there was also a .25 ACP 
magazine. It was no big surprise then, when Bill found a .25 Beretta in 
an ankle holster—a nylon ankle holster, of course. 

Bill shook his head in disgust. He didn't like nine millimeter. He
didn't like subdued finishes. He didn't like synthetic holsters. 

O well, Bill thought philosophically. At least the pistol wasn't plastic
and so far as double action nine millimeters went, the Beretta wasn't a 
bad one. 

Bill would have rather had a Browning High Power. He'd have swapped the
Beretta and his favorite jack-knife, along with two pounds of coffee 
for a nickel Smith and Wesson Model 39. Not that he thought that it was 
that great a Gun—but he grooved on the looks. 

He smiled to see that Steve had only come up with a Glock; two extra
magazines; and a half-dozen shotgun shells, in addition to the Witness 
Protection shotgun. 

“If you're going to keep the shotgun, I can let you have some ammo. If
it was me, I'd strip all the nine millimeters out of the Tupperware 
Wonder, and pitch it. I'll give you the Beretta, if you want a nine. At 
least it has a steel frame. When we get to my retreat, I can make you a 
leather holster and some nice wood grips for it.” 

Steve appeared undecided. 

“Could you make a holster for this one?” He asked. 

“I could—but I won't. A plastic Gun doesn't deserve a leather holster.
Make up your mind. We've got to skeedaddle.” 

Steve shrugged, and tossed the Glock out of the window. 

Bill's room was the first one encountered coming off the stairs. He
wasn't sure if they had meant to kill everyone, and had simply started 
with him or if he had been singled out. 

A quick glance at the second and third floors convinced him. They had
started at the first floor and worked their way upward. There were a 
couple more corpses in brown BDUs too, but whoever had serviced them, 
had also inherited their weapons. 

“Soon as I can stop somewhere and chance a light, I've got to check
those badges and ID from Bob and Ed—maybe figure out where they come 
from,” Bill said. 

Steve looked at him blankly. 

“Those were Federal Health Bureau uniforms. How can you not know that?”
Steve said in amazement. 

“I have some major issues with my memory. We'll talk about it later.
Right now we need to make tracks. By the way, thanks for the rescue. I 
gotta ask though: What's up with the sword and shaken?” 

Steve shrugged and looked embarrassed. 

“I wasn't sure that I'd trained with the Guns long enough to use them
well under stress. I was afraid that I might shoot you.” 

************* ********************************** ************* 

As Bill and Steve headed out of town, they saw several instances of
neighborhood watches gathered around fire barrels to ward off the night 
chill and taking a walk through security check very so often. There 
were also a surprising number of people walking the streets openly 
armed. 

Bill insisted that they go slow, keep to the shadows, thoroughly scout
before moving and give the campfire groups a large berth. Steve found 
the routine rather irritating. He couldn't very well go on alone though 
since he had no idea where they were headed. 

There was the sound of truck motors and headlight beams swept around the
corner. Bill yanked Steve into the dark shadow beside a concrete block 
building. They had to go prone to stay in the shadow. 

A Humvee turned the corner, followed by a big truck with its back filled
with soldiers. There were four teenagers caught in the beams. They had 
a shotgun; a .22 rifle and a long barreled Ruger Single Six between 
them. 

“Halt!” a bullhorn on top the Humvee shouted at them. “ Drop your
weapons and raise your hands over your heads! You are under arrest for 
violating the curfew, possession of firearms and unlawful assembly.” 

The horrified teenagers hastened to comply. A couple of squads of
soldiers came boiling out of the truck. The teens were knocked down; 
thoroughly beaten up, frisked and secured with plastic tie-locks. 

The officer in the Humvee called for a paddy wagon to come pick them up.
He left two soldiers behind to stand guard. The vehicle went on with 
the patrol. Apparently they either meant for the two soldiers to ride 
back to headquarters in the paddy wagon or they meant to pick them up 
the next time around. Presumably they were following a route so that 
wouldn't be too wild an assumption. 

From twenty yards away, Bill drew a bead on one soldier's head. Although
Bill was in the darkness, the man was standing under a streetlight and 
he was clearly silhouetted. He fired a quick double tap at the man's 
head. Then he laid a five round burst into the second guard's torso. 

Bill walked briskly up to the teens. He drew a Buck lock-back, thumbed
it open with one hand and cut their bonds. Bill walked over to one of 
the soldiers and picked up his weapon. 

He'd been expecting an M4 or perhaps an M16A1 or A2. Instead he found a
bizarre plastic bullpup weapon that he'd never seen before. 

“What in the hell is this POS?” He demanded from Steve, who'd joined him
by then. 

“That's a Model 34. The Army went to them back in '37.” 

“You mean like 2037?” 

“Yeah. Why does that upset you?” 

“I just had no idea that it was that late. What year is it anyway?” 

“It's December 2057. Didn't you know?” 

“Not really. Hadn't thought about it. We'll talk about it later. What's
your story?” 

This last was addressed to the three young men, and the girl. 

“We come from our Church's youth group. We volunteered to go try to find
a drugstore that was open. Several of the old people have a list of 
medications that they need badly. 

“Pastor Rod said that we should go armed. He said that there might be
muggers and looters around. He said that they wouldn't be enforcing the 
Gun laws during a crisis like this. 

“He said that the Laws would have enough common sense to realize that
people would need protection during a crisis like this.” 

“Wrong,” Bill said, 

He'd been reloading the kid's weapons as they talked. He handed them
back. He also gave them the M 34s, and all the soldier's spare 
magazines. 

“Well, I would stress getting out of here but that wouldn't get you your
meds. Fortunately there's a drugstore right there on the corner. Give 
me a hand Steve.” 

Bill drug one of the soldiers into an adjacent side yard, out of sight
of the road. Steve did the same with the other. 

“That drug store isn't open,” one of the teens pointed out. 

Bill used his entrenching tool to break out the plate glass window. 

“It is now. Steve, I doubt there's any kind of response time at all,
what with everything that's going down. Nonetheless, get out of sight, 
and watch for approaching lights—or whatever. 

“Give me your list and come on,” He said to the teens. “Everybody still
able to walk?” 

Bill marched into the store like a man on a mission. He had each of the
teens grab a canvas diaper bag, and follow him. 

“Everybody got flashlights?” 

It turned out that none of them did—but the pharmacy had flashlights and
plenty batteries. 

“Get you a flashlight going and follow me. Don't shine it in my eyes but
try to direct it where you're looking. Try not to let it shine it out 
the window. 

“Alright. Glucophage and Insulin. It's chill enough right now but that
Insulin needs refrigeration. Furosemide, Maxide, Atenolol, Tiazac, 
Clonidine. Also Xanax, Darvocet, and Prozac—we need Warfarin and 
Theophilline—Glyburide that's another Insulin extender. 

Bill quickly filled the order. Then he started grabbing drugs that he
knew would prove useful. 

“Penicillin, Keeflex, Tetracycline, Sulfa,” he said as he shoved them
into the teens sacks. “Nirtoglycerin; Dilaudids—hmmm. Y'all take the 
two and three milligrams. I'll take the fours. Demerol—two bottles for 
y'all, one for me. Amphetamines, Adrenalin, Dianabol I'll get some too. 


“You guys do have a doctor? Yes well...” 

Bill grabbed a few handfuls of bottles at random. Then it occurred to
him that the things in big bottles, were things there was a lot of 
demand for. 

He told two of the teens to start raiding the candy racks at the front
of the store. Bill tossed the others powdered milk, Iodine, 
Betadine—Sterile Napkins and kotex. 

“These are sterile,” Bill remarked. “They are good emergency bandages in
a pinch. Your doctor probably knows that but remind him.” 

They were in and out in less than twenty minutes. Bill came away with
some Amphetamines, Dilaudid, Demerol, Dianabol some assorted 
antibiotics and a few other over-the-counter things—along with beaucoup 
batteries, M&Ms and Snickers Bars. He also grabbed one four-pack of 
toilet paper and two three-liter generic colas. 

“Don't use your flashlights on the way back. Stick to the shadows.
Looting and firearms violations are capital offenses—so if any 
Guardsmen or Laws try to arrest you, do unto them as they would do unto 
you—BUT do it FIRST. Good luck and Godspeed.” 

As Steve and Bill turned away, Bill spoke. 

“Do you see why I've been hiding in the shadows and staying out of
sight? From now on when we stop, I don't need you looking over my 
shoulder watching what I'm doing. I'm capable. 

“Sometimes I may need help or I may want to show you something. If I do,
I'll tell you. 

“But unless I tell you otherwise, your default position is looking all
around trying to spot trouble coming—especially from our six. Do you 
understand?” 

“What's our six?” 

“Our rear end. Our back-trail.” 

“Getting tired? Here take a couple of these and was it down with some of
your cola.” 

“What is it?” 

“Amphetamines—speed. It is easy to overdo the speed but I'd really like
to be out of town by dawn. It's an acceptable trade-off—under the 
circumstances.” 

“Why did you get generic drinks? It was free after all.” 

“That's using your head. No, I wanted the three-liter bottles. Calories
are always at a premium during a bug-out, so the cola will 
help—marginally, for a day or two. 

“When they're empty though, they'll make nice improvised canteens. They
won't last as long or take the rough handling that metal canteens will 
but we have metal canteens too. These will be nice additional water 
bottles while they last.” 

They walked along a little while longer, and then Bill added, ”I almost
forgot. Speed always works better with some caffeine, and I always take 
some aspirin with mine. Here you go. 

“I'll whack fair with you on the pills when we stop and it's light
enough to see clearly.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Whack fair? It means to divide equally. Now we really need to be quiet
and listen for soldiers.” 

************ ************************** ***************** 

They did make it out of town before dawn and without further incident.
Later, after they'd made camp and eaten, Bill told Steve everything he 
knew about his memories. Steve tried to help him sort through some of 
his random recollections. 

Steve kept interrupting Bill to ask questions like, “What year was
that?” and “How old were you then?” 

Finally after they'd turned in for the day, when Bill was almost asleep,
Steve spoke. 

“Something doesn't add up, Bill. You can't possibly be old enough to
have memories going back to the 1960s and ‘70s.” 

“Nonetheless, I do.” 

He'd thought that Steve was a chucklehead but he'd figured out something
in a couple hours that Bill hadn't thought of in almost a year of 
obsessing. 

But what did it all mean? 

************************************************************************
********* 


Chapter Six 

“ ‘Travel light: freeze at night.' I remember reading that proverb
somewhere,” Bill said. “ ‘Tain't necessarily so. Anyway, we travel at 
night. That works out better any number of ways. 

“We can sleep better during the day—cause it's warmer. At night, when
it's really cold, we're moving and creating body heat,” Bill explained. 


They had just slept and generally lounged around through the first day.
Now as the sun was setting, they were preparing to set out on their 
second night's march. 

“Why won't you light a fire during the day? I'd think that a flame would
stand out more at night,” Steve asked. 

“It's true. You can see even a small flame from miles away at night.
However, it isn't hard to hide a flame. The coffee-can hobo stove does 
a fair job of hiding the flames all on it's own. I also make sure that 
we're in a screened place. 

“During the day though, you have to deal with smoke and the heat column.
You can largely eliminate the smoke, by selecting the right 
fuels—though it makes fuel gathering far more demanding. There's no way 
to get rid of the heat column though,” Bill explained. 

“What's a heat column?” Steve asked. 

“Hot air rises. It leaves a visible column in the air.” 

“And why do we travel at night?” 

“All the harder to see us, my Dear,” 

When Steve looked momentarily blank, Bill asked him, “Never heard the
story of ‘Little Red Riding Hood?' Never mind. It's a children's story 
about a girl that almost gets eaten by an anthropomorphic wolf. 

“Well actually, in the original French it was an allegory. Little Red
Riding Hood represents an innocent rustic girl coming to the Royal 
Court and the Big Bad Wolf is an aging lecher/seducer—possibly even 
rapist. 

“But the story has been recast as a child's tale in most modern
versions. I'll tell you the story tonight—well, our night, which starts 
at dawn.” 

“I can hardy wait,” Steve remarked dryly. 

“Don't be an ass Steve. A Warrior studies everything around him to
achieve true insight. Most folk tales contain wisdom. Even a stupid 
story tells you something about the chuckleheads who crafted it.” 

“And the chuckleheads who repeat the story?” Steve asked. 

After they had completed their meal, Bill turned to Steve. 

“It's gonna get real cold tonight. I can feel it. You have a coat, but I
don't think that's enough. Grab one of your wool blankets. 

“Here, drape it over your head like a cape. Tuck it—right over left—just
like a Judo Gi.” 

Bill got a rather thick piece of nylon rope from his pack. He wrapped
the rope around Steve. 

“Once again, just like a Judo Gi. Put the center against your belly.
Wrap it from both sides and bring the ends to the front. At this point, 
you have it wrapped around your waist twice. Now tie a square knot dead 
center. 

“Now you could poke a small stick through here and here, right beneath
your chin; then connect both ends with a string. 

“I don't care to poke holes in my blanket—even minimalist holes. So I
had the foresight to order several blanket broaches from a catalog. 
Don't seem to be many camping sites anymore, but they still have people 
who like to dress as Celts or Scots—for whatever reason... 

“If you get hot, you can let your hood down. You can take it off down to
the waist. If you need to use your hands, simply reach out, and let it 
hang freely.” 

“How did you learn all this?” 

“I don't really know. I read a lot. Whenever I came across a useful
idea, I hung onto it. I was a Survivalist for a long time,” Bill said. 

Many times Bill didn't consciously know that he knew something, until
someone asked him just the right question. Sometimes he'd just happen 
to ask himself a leading question. Sometimes need would summon a 
memory. 

He found though, that each new memory came with several auxiliary
memories—like the clumps of dirt left clinging to the roots of a 
freshly pulled-up weed. Only these clumps weren't filth. They were more 
like nuggets of platinum. 

He started actively pursuing one memory thread after the other.
Sometimes the resurrected memories came out smoothly. Sometimes 
something would stay just out of reach—for hours, or even days. He'd 
worry at it the same way that he'd worry at piece of meat trapped 
between his molars, with no dental floss to be found. 

Bill remembered the Olympic Style Weightlifter's maxim: “The more you
can lift: the more you can lift.” 

It meant that once you got strong enough to lift enough weight to make
the bar bend, that you could use the spring and whip of the bar to lift 
still more weight. 

With Bill, the more he could remember, the more he could remember.
Usually, when he'd finally dredged up a hard to retrieve memory; it 
would clear the path to many easy to recall memories. 

While his memory wasn't coming back any too quickly, the rate at which
it came back was gradually growing. 

The speed had jogged a big chunk of his memories loose. So were all the
dirt-time skills he was getting a chance to use again, as well as the 
feel of the big Smith and Wesson riding in the shoulder holster, the 
Single Action .357 riding in his waist band and the Double Barrel 
Shotgun always carried in his hands. 

He strove to keep his attention on the task at hand. He could be in the
here-and-now and still probe his memories—but it required a much less 
intense, less conscious probing. Even so he continued to accumulate 
unanswered questions throughout the night. 

*************** ***************************** **************** 

At first the night seemed endless. After about an hour and a half
though, Bill got into the groove. They were following the Railroad 
tracks but they weren't walking between the rails. The track bed was 
raised and they'd be silhouetted against the skyline from either side. 
Also, there was no way to walk silently on the ballast. 

Bill had Steve walk about five yards behind him. Every hundred and fifty
yards or so, Bill would pause to listen and take some deep breaths 
through his nose to try to catch anything that smelled out of place 
(like wood smoke from a campfire, for instance) and to probe any deep 
shadows within his visual range. 

After about an hour or so of the pause, study, move, Bill sort of got
into the groove and it wasn't so bad. He began to wonder if he weren't 
being too cautious. They could make much better time, and not have to 
work so hard to do it, if Bill didn't insist on doing it like they were 
on a combat reconnaissance patrol. 

Of course, Bill had never been on a reconnaissance patrol. That was a
strange thing: somehow Bill was absolutely certain that he'd never been 
an Army Ranger. Yet he had a vivid memory of practicing some Judo 
throws in a wet sawdust pit. The Sensei wore woodland camo and he 
habitually addressed Bill as “Ranger” as he corrected Bill's technique. 
Odd. 

***************** ******************** *********************** 

Bill stuck to his original plan though. There was no urgent need to get
to Kentucky. All that he planned to do in Kentucky was what he was 
already doing in Indiana: survive. It made absolutely no sense to risk 
compromising that worthy ideal in the service of an ill-considered 
haste. 

The fifth night of their bug-out though, all their precautions were
almost insufficient. 

As Bill walked along the Railroad right of way, a dark figure stepped
out in front of him. 

“Hold it right there pilgrim. Let me see what you got in your pack,” The
man holding a rifle at port arms said. 

“Pilgrim?” Did the dude think that he was in an old movie? Several
others came forward from their hiding places—possibly to help convince 
Bill that resistance was futile. 

Bill thought that if it were him, he'd have taken the lone hiker out
with a single well-placed shot—or lacking ammo, with a knife or garrote 
from behind. These chuckleheads wanted to play brigand, but they didn't 
have the true killer instinct to truly play the role. 

Bill brought his shotgun up and gave the first client a load of buckshot
to the chest, while tightly shutting his left eye against the muzzle 
flash. He swung onto a second client and tripped the second barrel. 

Just then Steve, who had avoided notice so far, fired the thirty-five
millimeter flare pistol that Bill had given him, straight up into the 
air. Bill dropped to one knee. He laid the shotgun down quickly but 
gently on the ground, and drew his big eight-and-three-eights inch 
Smith and Wesson .357 from its shoulder holster. 

He ripped off six rounds in a couple seconds. The men were clearly
silhouetted in the blinding white light from the magnesium flare. He 
fired three double taps and was two for three. His second two round 
burst had went wide of the target for some unfathomable reason. 

Meanwhile Steve shouldered his .357 Marlin Lever Action, and fired ten
shots at the attackers as fast as he could pull the trigger. He'd spent 
some time practicing dry-firing the Gun and working the action every 
day since they'd left. Under the stress of combat, he shot the ten 
rounds in about three seconds. 

He only hit two clients, and only one of those dropped on the spot, but
he sent enough rounds their way, to thoroughly intimidate the 
opposition. Bill held onto the .357 with his right hand, and reached 
down to grab the shotgun with his left. 

He yelled, “Blue! Blue, blue,” as he ran back the way that he'd came. 

“Blue” was code for, “Retreat along the back trail.” 

The magnesium flare and all the muzzle flashes had pretty much ruined
the night vision in both Bill and Steve's right eyes. It would take an 
hour or two for the night vision to truly return. But because they had 
tightly closed their left eyes, they both still had full night vision 
in one eye. 

Bill had heard the remark on the television once, that bad vision had no
vision beat all to hell. The vision from his right eye at the moment, 
while pretty bad, was still a big improvement on nothing. It was 
helping him to navigate, to some limited degree, right now. 

Bill could hear Steve running on the other side of the Railroad tracks.
After Bill had counted three hundred steps, he stopped and shouted. 

“Tick,” Bill sang out. 

“Tock,” Steve responded loudly. 

Bill worked his way over to Steve's position, trying hard not to make
noise doing so. He placed his mouth close to Steve's ear and whispered 
urgently. 

“Reload. We'll wait here and ambush them if they try to follow us.” 

Bill spilled his empty .357 shells out on the ground and speed-loaded
his .357. Then he reloaded his shotgun. He drew some loose rounds and 
reloaded the speed loader. Finally he picked up his brass—all except 
for one .357 case that he couldn't find. 

He shrugged. There was really no pressing reason to police up his
empties anyway, under the circumstances. It was just a way to keep his 
shaking hands busy. He wasn't afraid, but the adrenaline was making his 
hands shake as if he were palsied. 

After about an hour, he put his mouth to Steve's ear again. This time he
also cupped his hands around his mouth and Steve's ear to further 
muffle the sound. 

“I think that if they were going to follow us, they'd have done it by
now. I don't think they're stalking us. They didn't seem the subtle 
type. Nonetheless, be as absolutely quiet as you can. 

“About a half-mile further back there's a small road that crosses the
track. We'll get off the tracks there, and follow the road to the 
highway. 

*********** ******************************* ****************** 

They reached the highway before dawn. They set up camp in a thicket
beside the highway. After they'd eaten, Bill spoke to Steve. 

“You did good today Steve,” Bill told him. “Now do you see why I want
you to maintain a tactical distance between us, and try not to be 
seen?” 

“Why did we leave the Railroad tracks?” Steve asked. 

“Didn't want to take a chance on meeting up with those peckerwoods
again.” 

“Couldn't we run into them while traveling beside this highway?” 

“It is possible but less likely. They might decide to leave the Railroad
but there is little or no reason for them to come here to this highway. 
Too many other highways for them to go to.” 

After a few moments, Bill spoke up again, but reluctantly this time. 

“I'm remembering more stuff all the time. This is disturbing but I
remember being in a nursing home. I was a lot older looking and feeble 
back then. I was very bald and I didn't have any teeth,” Bill said. 

Although his hair was snowy white, he had a very full head of it. He
also had a full set of perfect teeth—including a pair of eye teeth that 
were a bit longer than average. The modest fangs weren't that 
noticeable unless he snarled but they gave him a very fierce aspect 
when angry. 

“That's weird,” Steve said. 

“There's more. I can plainly remember dying. That's a trip you don't
come back from—at least not until Judgment Day... 

************************************************************************
**************** 


Chapter Seven 

Bill and Steve made it to the highway. They continued south, but
parallel to the highway, instead of the Railroad tracks. 

The incident with the gunmen had made Steve start to take their ambush
precautions more seriously. Even Bill felt as if all his senses had 
been given a good steeling—like a butcher's blade—and were once again 
razor-sharp. 

But security verses speed and ease of travel is always a trade-off. They
could have paused for an hour every twenty feet and still not be 
absolutely certain that no one lie in wait just ahead. The riskiest 
course of action, by far, was to let apprehension freeze them into one 
place. Standing still was a sure way to become prey. 

They had gone well out of their way to miss Terre Haute. It was a
reasonable-sized city of about seventy-five thousand, if Bill's memory 
was correct. According to Bill's research, the population of the US was 
down to about two hundred and ten million. There were a larger 
percentage of immigrants than in his day, and a fair chunk of the 
population was down for the count in nursing homes. 

There had been a modest exodus from the country and from the smaller
towns and cities into the population centers. He thought that Terre 
Haute had probably been on the downside of the population shift, but he 
wasn't certain. 

It didn't matter. Terre Haute was something to avoid, whatever its
current population. 

A few days south of Terre Haute, they paused to make camp and get their
cooking done before dawn, as always. Steve killed a rabbit with one of 
his throwing stars, so they had some meat with their beans and rice. 

Bill had been irritated when Steve had insisted on bringing four or five
pounds of his favorite stars with him. Bill thought that shaken were 
toys at best and at worst a very feeble reed to lean on in a crisis. 

He had relented though, thinking Steve would either lose them one or two
at a time or ditch them when the rigors of the trail hit him. 

Steve had mastered the throwing stars to a higher degree than anyone
Bill had ever seen though. He rarely missed. When he did miss, he could 
track the errant star's trajectory with amazing accuracy. 

So far he'd yet to lose his first star. He'd killed four rabbits, two
quail and several songbirds—and even a small songbird added some 
welcome flavor and protein to a pot of rice or noodles. 

They had extinguished their fire and Bill was asleep, when Steve gently
shook him awake. Steve was watching the road with the pair of Tasco 
7x35 binoculars That Bill had given him. Bill's own binoculars—at least 
the big set—was a pair of Tasco 7x50s. 

Tasco optics weren't top of the line by any means, but they were good
solid optics and a good value for the price. Bill had used them ever 
since he could remember. He wouldn't have traded his Tasco binoculars 
for a top of the line pair of Zeiss, Bushnell or Nikon. He liked to 
stick to what he knew. 

Bill joined Steve. He could see a ragged horde—perhaps two or three
hundred folks walking down the highway, headed south. Although the 
temperature had climbed into the high forties and the sun was shinning 
brightly, these folks walked with their arms wrapped tightly around 
themselves as if they were extraordinarily cold. 

Lack of food, exhaustion and lack of acclimatization—which can't really
take place while one is both starving, and making long forced marches 
every day—along with inferior clothing, all added to the peoples 
inability to stand even modest cold. 

He wondered if the folks had come from Terre Haute, or one or more of
the small towns in the area. It didn't matter. There was no way that he 
could help that many people, even if he felt called to, which he 
didn't. He limited himself to a brief prayer for their welfare. 

Just as Bill was noticing that there were at least a couple big dogs
with the group, several military trucks and other vehicles came up 
behind them. 

“Maybe they'll give them some food,” Bill said quietly to Steve. 

A Humvee went to the front of the group. A man in a blue beret got out
with an electric bullhorn. 

“United Nations, “ Bill remarked. “Can't see any rank insignia though.” 

When the dude started talking though, Bill and Steve could hear the
accented voice quite well. 

“I am Major Schmidt. You people are in violation of a number of the
provisions under the martial law. I am ordering you to turn around and 
return to the refugee camp.” 

Bill had no idea what the deal was with the refugee camp, but the
indications were that the refugees didn't think much of the idea. He 
could see them shaking their fists at the Major. Some were giving him 
the finger. Others were gathering up twigs and small stones to throw. 

As the people advanced, the Major climbed into the passenger side of the
Humvee, without bothering to close the door. The vehicle moved a couple 
hundred yards further down the road and paused again. 

He leaned out the open door, and addressed them through the bullhorn
once again. 

“This is your last warning, turn around and go back!” 

The people continued to surge forward. A helicopter appeared in the
south. The rest of the convoy was parked a good four hundred yards 
behind the refugees. The Humvee with the UN Major drove across the 
divider, and a couple hundred more yards farther away from the 
refugees. 

The helicopter executed a strafing run the length of the column of
refugees. At the same time, the vehicles in the rear opened up with 
both some twin fifties mounted in the truck beds and some .30 caliber 
belt-fed machine guns on small tripods that had been set up on the 
spot. 

Bill couldn't tell if the helicopter's twin Guns were fifties of
twenty-five or thirty-five millimeters. 

At least that's the general class that the weapons appeared to be to
Bill. He was a little behind the times in military armament. In the end 
it hardly mattered what weapons the UN Forces were using. The unarmed 
refugees were defenseless against them. 

Bill's mind seemed to open up and absorb all sorts of random
impressions. He noted that at almost a quarter mile away the rifleman 
weren't' wasting their ammo. That was admirable frugality. Save those 
shots for a rainy day boys—you might need them. 

A dog ran toward the tree line. Sheer terror made the dog move like a
blue-striped racer. About half way to his goal, the dog was knocked off 
his feet. He stood and limped toward the trees, yelping in pain the 
whole way. 

Bill wished him well. If he survived the massacre, he'd be the only one.


Somehow in the midst of all the carnage, Bill had drawn his eight and
three-eighths inch Smith and Wesson, and hunkered down into an 
admirable roll-over prone, without ever consciously deciding to do so. 

After the helicopter had made three strafing runs, it left. They hadn't
fired anything like a full complement of rounds the last time through. 

The Major pulled his Humvee back to within spiting distance of the head
of the column. He stood smoking a cigarette by the hood of the Humvee, 
while his men made sure there were no survivors. 

“Elmer Keith hit a deer at six hundred yards once, with a six inch .44
Magnum. I'm no Elmer Keith—but I'm reasonably sure that I can hit a UN 
Major with an eight and three-eighths inch .357 Magnum—when he's only 
about three hundred-fifty yards away. 

“If I only had my old Smith and Wesson eight and three-eighths inch .44
it would remove all doubt...” Bill told himself. 

Reluctantly he abandoned the plan. He might get the Major. With luck, he
might get three or four of the others. Then the helicopter would come 
back or they'd send all the soldiers into the brush or they'd call for 
reinforcements. Perhaps they'd call in an artillery strike. The bottom 
line was that he and Steve would end up dead—to no good purpose. 

He wasn't afraid to die. He just wanted to kill plenty of the enemy
before he did. He hadn't felt the slightest burden to try to help those 
folks. He knew that he didn't have the wherewithal. He accepted that 
without a twinge of guilt. 

Watching the UN Forces Gun down unarmed civilians in his own State had
laid a burden on him though—a burden of vendetta and vengeance. 

Bill grumped around after the massacre. Steve had never seen his friend
and mentor angry—let alone in an extended berserker. Truth be told, he 
was afraid of him. He left him alone for a couple hours. 

Bill rummaged through his ALICE pack. He brought out a pad of drawing
paper, several expensive mechanical pencils like draftsmen use—though 
loaded with the softest lead he could find in each size and three 
different kind of erasers. He hadn't been consciously aware that he'd 
packed the art supplies. And if someone had pointed them out to him the 
day before, he wouldn't have had a clue why he'd packed them. 

After he'd sat writing, scribbling, sketching or whatever he was doing,
Steve overcame his apprehension to come see what Bill was doing. He 
found three excellent pencil sketches of the Major along with one or 
two sketches of several of the other soldiers. 

“You're an Artist!” Steve said in amazement. 

Concentrating on the drawings had purged Bill of his anger. He hadn't
been mad at Steve in any case. Nonetheless, Steve's comment hit Bill 
like 220 volts of electricity, or as though someone had unexpectedly 
doused him with thirty gallons of ice water. Whole blocks of memory 
came back to Bill all at once. 

“You're right. I earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts, and later a Master of
Fine Arts from Purdue. I studied Judo for five years in college. Purdue 
had an excellent Judo program back then. 

After I got my Bachelor's, everyone else was struggling to pay off their
student loans—get ahead in the rat-race. But me—I scrapped together 
enough money to go to Japan for two years to study Judo at the Kodokan. 


“Then I talked my way into a Sumo stable and trained for three years to
be a Sumo Wrestler. Made just enough money, before I lost interest, to 
pay off my loans, and start work on my MFE. 

“Good Lord Steve, I've never been rich or famous. I was never
conspicuously successful—but some of the adventures I've had...” 

“What year was all this?” Steve asked. 

Bill raised one hand in protest. 

“Debrief me later Steve. Right now this is rather unsettling.” 

********************* *************** ************************ 

Later, before they resumed their march, Bill spoke briefly to Steve. 

“This is all kinda grim. Never mind! Tomorrow, or day after tomorrow, we
should reach one of my old caches. I'm reasonably certain that all, or 
at least most of the stuff should be usable. There'll be gifts and 
treats all around.” 

“Do you mean to go after those murdering scum?” Steve asked. 

“Eventually, once I get to my main retreat and salvage some of my best
gear.” 

“Count me in.” 

“Steve, it is my geas to go on the vengeance path. After what I saw
today, nothing else can matter until this is addressed. It's like a 
hollow spot inside me. 

“But I wouldn't recommend that path to you. It's for people who have
nowhere else to go. I don't have any kindred. You're the only friend 
that I have. I haven't figured out what it all means yet but I 
distinctly remember dying. 

“Maybe that's the sole reason I'm here—so those souls can rest easy
until the judgment.” 

“I don't have anywhere else to go either,” Steve said. 

“Well it will take awhile to get to my retreat—if it's even there
anymore. Promise me that you'll search diligently in your heart for 
another path. Pray over it. Then if you still feel like you have to 
come with me when the time comes—then maybe it's your geas too.” 

************** ******************************** ************** 

The area was just as Bill had remembered it. It was secluded enough that
he felt it safe to start digging in the daylight. After a few hours of 
digging, and a couple dry runs, they found Bill's stash. 

He'd originally used a posthole digger and several home made PVC cache
tubes—and he'd buried them all within arm's reach of each other. He dug 
out the old white plastic tubes until the number matched what he 
remembered burying. 

“This is an SKS. It's from Yugoslavia. It's been thoroughly worked over
by Accurate Plating and Weaponry. It has one of their hundred dollar 
trigger jobs. It's been plated with frosty hard chrome. It's got a 
fiber optic front sight, a ghost-ring aperture rear sight—lots of good 
stuff. 

They offered a nylon stock but I stuck with wood. Later I made my own
custom walnut stocks for it. It's yours. I'll show you how to get all 
the preservatives off of it shortly.” 

“What will you do for a rifle?” 

“There are two more—one for me, and one to rebury for a rainy day.” 

Bill rummaged around some more. Then he found what he was looking for. 

“ I knew that I couldn't afford to buy all the Guns that I'd like to
cache—so I started making them. These are .45 Autos based on Bill 
Holmes' Home Workshop pistol. I blew these up to .45. The original 
design was for .22, .32, or .380. 

“These use 1911 magazines—though they're retained by a butt clasp. They
kick a bit, being straight blowback, but not too badly. There are eight 
of them here. I'm taking two. Take as many as you like. We'll rebury 
the others.” 

Steve only wanted one of the .45s. When Bill showed him the .32 Autos,
he once again took only one to Bill's two. 

There were knives and leather for the handguns. Bill had made the
leather too, since the pistols were non-standard. Bill had every 
confidence that the Guns and ammo would come through okay, but he was 
pleasantly surprised at how well his leather had endured. 

There was whole wheat, beans, sugar, honey and salt in some of the
tubes—and jerky-jerky. Curiously, at least to Steve's way of thinking, 
Bill had also stored some jewelry. 

“These beads are made from Fossil Mammoth Ivory. These came already
strung. Bought them from Boone Trading Company. I bought these Mammoth 
beads singly and strung them myself. Those claws are from a brown bear 
that I killed in Alaska. 

These beads are from Ancient Egypt—no joke. They were high, but not
prohibitively so. These are modern beads made of amber. These beads are 
from the old French-Indian trading days.” 

“Were you around back then?” 

“Hell no! I bought them from a reputable dealer. Here take a few strings
of beads...” 

Bill was surprised that Steve would only take one string of the Mammoth
Ivory beads—and only because Bill insisted, even then. Bill happily 
hung seven or eight of the strings of beads around his neck. 

“If they could see me on the Carnie now. Carnival...you know?” Bill
said. 

Steve had never heard of a Carnival and he didn't know that it was
Carnie Chic to wear multiple bead necklaces—at least on some Carnivals. 
He did gather that his friend really grooved on beads. 

“Look at this revolver Steve. This is the only one like this that I have
and I'm sorry; but it's for me. It's a seven and a half inch Ruger 
Blackhawk in .45 Colt. It's been worked over by John Limbaugh—it's 
still a six-shooter, but it can take like real heavy-duty loads. 

“It's been Mag-Na-Ported. It has Brass Super Blackhawk grips and a Super
Blackhawk hammer. It's been shiny hard chromed—and those grips were 
made from the thighbone of a Mammoth. It's a beauty. 

“I tell you what—you can have my EMF .357. No? Are you sure? I'm just
going to cache it here if you don't want it.” 

“Would you like the big Smith .357? No? Okay.” 

Finally they got down to the last couple tubes. 

“I saved one of the very best things for last.” 

Bill opened the cache tube gingerly. Inside were three smaller PVC
tubes. He opened the other tube and reverently extracted three more 
mini-tubes. He screwed the cap off one of the mini-tubes. Inside was a 
glass bottle full of brown liquid. 

“Do you know what this is? This is Double Cola—the best soft drink ever
made—by far. These were bottled back when they still used cane sugar 
and bottled them in returnable bottles. They were very much superior to 
the later corn syrup/plastic bottled ones. 

“Depending on how well my other caches came through, these may be the
last six Double Colas on Earth—and I intend to whack fair with you.” 

“When did you bury this stuff Bill?” 

“1984.” 

For some reason, Bill found that hilariously funny. 

“What?” 

“They used to say that 1984 gets closer every year—and they're still
right.” 

“Hmmm. You ask me, I'd say that it was getting further away every
day—but that's just my uninformed opinion. But Bill, those soft drinks 
have been in the ground over seventy years.” 

“Don't seem to have hurt them none. Lets try one and find out.” 

************* ******************** ********************** 

It took them a couple days to get all the various preservatives off of
their new/old things. The Double Colas turned out to be just fine—and 
chilled to just about the right temperature from being buried beneath 
the winter soil. 

But they didn't last long... 

************************************************************************
****************** 


Chapter Eight 

A couple days after the massacre, a huge dog came limping into camp.
Steve hastened to grab his .357 Ruger Security Six in one hand, and a 
shaken in the other. 

“Easy Steve. He doesn't mean any harm. Look at him. He's hungry. I think
he's the one that got away. 

“Aren't you boy? Here have some beans and rice—with a little jerky-jerky
thrown in.” 

Bill carefully set the food down close to the dog and then backed slowly
away. The dog quickly ate the meal that had been intended for both of 
the men. 

“Now what are we going to eat?” Steve asked. 

“We have plenty. He doesn't,” Bill shrugged. 

After the dog ate, he warily approached Bill. After Bill had talked to
him and petted him for a few minutes, he seemed to accept Bill. 

The dog had an extra-wide leather collar on. It was over two inches
wide. Whether the dog stayed with them or not, the collar was a 
liability on a free-ranging dog. It bothered Bill much the same way as 
an unlanced boil would have bothered him. 

He didn't feel that he knew the dog well enough to bollix around with
the collar, trying to undo it. Instead he slipped a thin, razor-sharp 
blade under the collar, and deftly severed it. The dog merely glanced 
at him curiously. 

There was a big brass plate on the collar. It was covered with small
scripted engravings. It looked like someone had tried to write the 
Lord's Prayer—or their life story—on the brass plate. 

Bill muttered a curse as he tried to read the flowery cursive. He wished
that whoever had written it, had learned to print. 

“My name is ‘Loki'. I'm half Bloodhound and half Bullmastiff. Though I
was bred to be a ‘kill-dog', I ended up being a Pamela's house pet. So 
even though I may look big and mean; if you find me please send me back 
to Pamela. She'll miss me so...” 

There was a bit more—along with an address; but something—Bill thought
high-speed road fragments from a near miss—had obliterated part of the 
writing. 

“Why would anyone put all of that on a dog collar,” Steve asked after
Bill read it out loud. 

Bill shrugged. 

“Anyone who was afraid of the dog wouldn't get anywhere near close
enough to read the collar. This dog has probably lived a very 
sheltered, over-protected life—until TSHTF. 

Someone—probably a little girl—obsessed about him becoming lost. The
plaque was for her peace of mind. Although you never know, the address 
might have helped if he was ever found.” 

After thinking silently for a few moments, Bill spoke to the dog. 

“Well Loki, I have every confidence that you're a gentle giant. It's
gonna be a feral old World though, for a good long while—almost 
certainly for the rest of your life. 

“If you're going to hang with Steve and me, you're going to have to
toughen up—get just downright mean, in a lot of ways. Can you dig it? 

“By the way Steve, I just remembered: I buried the SKS, the Ruger and
the beads about twenty years after the rest of the stuff. Before that, 
I had Enfields buried here, along with a Ruger .44 Magnum Super 
Blackhawk.” 

“Where are the Enfields now?” 

“They're around,” Bill said mysteriously. Then something occurred to
him. 

“Why are you asking,” he bantered with Steve. “You don't even know what
an Enfield is.” 

*********** ************************** ****************** 

“We're almost to Vincennes,” Bill told Steve. “My mother was born in
Vincennes—though her family moved to Haubstadt before she was old 
enough to remember. 

“We've been traveling alongside the highway. We're going to try
traveling alongside the banks of the Wabash for the next few days. 
Maybe we can catch some catfish—though they won't taste like the one's 
my father used to make. We have neither lard nor cornmeal—still, I 
think that we can come up with something palatable.” 

They stopped just short of some river camps that morning. 

“These camps are interesting. This used to be called ‘Pearl City'. Folks
made a living dredging up fresh-water muscles. 

“They'd eat the meat-ughh!!! They'd sell the shells, which would
eventually make their way to Japan to be turned into seeds for cultured 
Pearls. Occasionally they'd find a fresh-water Pearl. 

“I used to have an old H&R Breaktop with Mother of Pearl grips. It was
made in the 1890s, chambered for .38 Smith and Wesson and after all 
that time the Pearl grips were still perfect. I wish I had some Mother 
of Pearl grips. Wouldn't mind having a string of Pearl beads either—but 
they are beaucoup expensive. 

“I doubt that anyone still lives there. But we'll go through after dark
tonight—just to be extra cautious.” 

***************** ******************** ****************** 

Bill, Steve and Loki were halfway through the apparently abandoned river
camp when they were abruptly caught in the crossfire of a couple dozen 
high intensity lights. 

Bill hated to stand around like a deer caught in headlights, but at the
moment the metaphor was remarkably appropriate. His retinas were 
bleached to the point of near blindness. Even if he got away from the 
light, his night blindness would persist for a large fraction of an 
hour or so. 

He was considering aiming at the lights and going down shooting when the
lights were abruptly turned off. 

“It's okay. We don't mean you any harm. I'm coming down to speak to you.
Don't shoot me,” A disembodied voice said. 

All Bill could see was a dim shape floating in front of him, but the man
sounded cheerful enough. 

“Lets see, you have a nice big claw and bead necklace, and you have long
silky white hair. Are you Inuyasha? No, Inuyasha doesn't carry an SKS. 

“Are those beads Mammoth Ivory? Is that a Holmes style Auto-Pistol
riding on your hip? And you have a BIG dog.” 

“Bill had answered the two questions in the affirmative. He was about to
ask a couple questions of his own but Steve spoke up. 

“What in the hell are you two jabbering about?” Steve demanded. 

“You can't understand us?” Bill asked in surprise. 

“ You're fluent enough in Japanese, that you don't even consciously
realize when you're switching languages from English,” The cheerful 
blob told Bill. 

Switching to English, he added,” I'd say that you're Bill Perry—the
infamous number five.” 

“You know me?” Bill asked. 

“I know of you. I've met four of your namesakes. One of them tried to
kill me. I'm still standing, but he isn't. Nonetheless, he died 
honourably. Two I only met briefly. The fourth was my best friend. He 
died with honour too. So you're my fifth number five—an omen of what, I 
wonder...” 

“Why were you speaking Japanese?” 

“We're Yakuza. We speak Japanese amongst ourselves. In your case though,
it was a test. If you can understand Japanese, you're well on your way 
to accessing your full memories—and you'd be a most formidable 
opponent.” 

“You're not Yakuza.” 

“Bill, you're decades out of date. I'd watch calling people liars to
their faces. You are right in one way though: we're not the old Mafia 
style Japanese Yakuza. We're the American Biker Gang Yakuza. 

“Tell me, have you experienced memories of dying yet?” 

“Quite clearly.” 

“Well you ought to be close to complete recall then. The idea of being
able to recall dying fascinates me—even though it isn't actually your 
death.” 

“What do you mean? When I get all my memories back, will all this make
any sense?” 

“Not without some inside info, but I have that. Lets get under cover and
we'll fill you in. By the way, I go by ‘Kogi'—and no, that's not my 
real name.” 

************* ******************** ********************** 

The old river camp buildings only served as entrances to a fairly
elaborate underground clubhouse. The clubhouse wouldn't be usable when 
the river flooded, and it was underwater, but the Yakuza had engineered 
a watertight system of hatches so water wouldn't come in and ruin 
anything in their bunker. 

They were, by their own account, pretty nomadic anyway. They rarely
stayed in one place for longer than two or three weeks. They had 
numerous clubhouses and were quite capable of camping out and roughing 
it in between; so leaving the river camp when the river was high was no 
particular hardship for them. 

Bill and Steve dined on steak, catfish, potatoes and gravy that night.
The Yakuza ate well—at least part of the time. 

As Bill looked them over he saw that the club had about equal numbers of
whites, blacks and Hispanics. There were only a couple of men who 
looked oriental and Bill thought that both of them were Chinese. 

Some of the Yakuza sported the traditional tattoos, but most of them
didn't. That wasn't a gang requirement. Speaking fluent Japanese was. 
The Yakuza figured—quite reasonably—that if someone wasn't serious 
enough to learn a foreign language, he wasn't terribly committed to 
being Yakuza. 

The Yakuza may not have been oriental but they had mastered the art of
trying someone's patience in true oriental style. They politely brushed 
off or ignored any questions that Bill tried to ask them about himself. 
After the third or fourth time that someone deftly deflected one of 
Bill's questions, he realized that they simply didn't want to discuss 
it at that time. 

“The Club had its genesis amongst hackers, geeks, and internet
anarchists. For the most part, they were big readers of Comics and 
Magna. They were really into Animae. Many of them studied Japanese 
largely to be able to watch Animae in its original language. 

“They admired the Comic book style of heroism, Bushido and Budo. They
found much to admire in Japanese culture. Many of them did their own 
Animations. 

“Then about twenty-five years ago, America started to change very
abruptly. Some of the Artists and Dreamers felt compelled to act—but 
they were bright enough to know that for the most part that they were 
pencil necks and wimps. 

“They organized what has come to be known as the ‘Rice-Burner'
motorcycle clubs—named for the Japanese bikes they rode. The Yakuza was 
one such club. Then there's the ‘Yamakazis', the ‘Ninja', the 
‘Werewolves' and a few other clubs. And no, ‘Werewolves' isn't a 
Japanese name. Nonetheless, they were one of the original Rice-Burner 
clubs. 

“These guys had money back then. They built clubhouses that were dojos
and training centers. They hired the best people that they could find 
to teach them full-contact martial arts, kendo, self defense with a 
pistol, long-range marksmanship and high performing motorcycle 
riding—maintenance too. 

“Some of the guys couldn't hang when the going got tough. They split—and
no hard feelings. Some of our most loyal supporters are washouts from 
our training programs. They weren't Yakuza material, but nonetheless, 
they learned something of value in their time with us. 

“Along the way, we picked up some other types of people—hard corp biker
types, wild and crazy types, freedom militia types. We've absorbed 
quite a few of them over the years—but if they aren't bright enough to 
understand the two-fold way of the ‘Pen and Sword'—then they're not 
Yakuza material either. 

“We're one of the most active resistance groups around. If you seriously
want to harass the UN Peacekeepers and the various Jackbooted, 
Hob-Nailed alphabet agencies, you should hang with us.” 

“That's all very charming—fascinating even—but...” Bill said, leaving
the end of the sentence trail off suggestively. 

“You want to know about yourself, don't you? You'll find the truth
unnerving at first. We didn't want to spoil a fine meal. 

“Bill Perry was born in 1957. He lived a rather eventful life and died
in 2033, at the age of seventy-six years old. Ordinarily that would be 
the end of the story—but in these cases, it's just the beginning. 

“Bill took part in an experiment to watch neurological changes in the
nerve cells and brain tissue as it dies. Serendipitously, they captured 
Bill's complete personality engram and memories as he faded away. 

“You don't know how extremely rare that is. The technology to capture
personality engrams has been around for decades—but it's a very 
exacting process—Impossible for all practical purposes. In all this 
time, Bill and six others in the accidental group are the only usable 
engrams to ever be captured.” 

Kogi paused for a moment. Bill's eyes tried to bore holes in Kogi, as he
saw where this was going. 

“You can't download a personality engram into a working human brain. It
erases the original engram, and garbles the new one beyond recognition. 


“NA victims eventually lose all memories, but their brain has turned to
mush. Once the disease runs its course, there is a way to ‘cure' the 
brain, But all that gets you is a forty-some-odd year old man, still 
somewhat brain damaged and with the memory of a newborn. 

“Still, with all those potential resources laying around, it is not
surprising that they're loathe to give up.” 

Bill leaned forward in his seat. 

“Tell me the rest,” he said. 

“Well they take a zombie with no memory. They put him on a drug regime
to clear all the mucilage out of his skull. Then they inject him with a 
mixture of embryonic human brain cells and small microprocessors that 
have the power to swim along and wire themselves into the brain's 
neuron network at fairly regular intervals. 

“The microprocessors more than compensate for any residual slowness—and
they've been proven to cause the new cells to form much richer 
connections than they otherwise would 

“Then when the new hybrid brain is fully formed, they download one of
the seven engrams into it. 

“They fail more often than not but they succeed just often enough to
keep them trying. You apparently, were an initial failure that was 
still of enough interest to keep alive for further observation. Then 
your memory came to you belatedly. Sorry to tell you Bill.” 

“I'm not Bill Perry. I simply inherited his memories. I'm not the
zombie, because every shred of his personality was erased. And I'm not 
the one or more donors of the embryonic brain tissue either. I'm none 
of them but all of them. I'm nobody... 

“And to top it all off, I'm old!” 

“I wouldn't sweat the age thing Bill. They do some remarkable
regeneration on their retreads,” Kogi said. 

“So these mad scientists also have the secret to eternal youth?” 

“Not exactly. The treatment is fatal far more often than not. A sane
person wouldn't risk it. You weren't given a choice and the fact that 
you're here means that you're one of the lucky few that did survive. 
You're probably good for another century, at the very least. 

************************************************************************
********* 


Chapter Nine 

The Yakuza had a fair-sized Dojo in their underground clubhouse. Bill
had just been through a fatiguing and thoroughly depressing Judo 
workout on the tatami mats. 

“I must say that I expected better from you,” Kogi taunted Bill. 

“I though that you would be a Master. After all, you spent two years in
Japan studying Judo at the Kodokan. You spent a year in South America 
studying Brazilian Jujitsu with the Gracies. You managed to travel and 
study martial arts with some of the best Martial Artists in the World. 

“Yet here you are being beaten by a so-so club fighter,” Kogi concluded.


Bill's face started to cloud, and he was about to issue a challenge to
fight once more. 

“Peace! I only wanted to get your attention. I only said what you're
thinking. Now I want to point out some flaws in your thinking,” Kogi 
said. 

“Bill Perry studied for two years at the Kodokan. Bill Perry traveled to
Katmandu—just to see the place and to hike to the foothills of Everest. 
Bill Perry traveled on the Amazon in a canoe. Bill Perry shot several 
Brown Bears in Alaska,” Kogi said. 

As he enumerated each of Bill's adventures, he counted on his fingers. 

“But you aren't Bill Perry, are you?” Kogi continued. “You never studied
Judo and Sumo in Japan. You never took any of Jeff Cooper's classes at 
Gunsite Academy. You never sent the hundreds of pounds of lead 
downrange that Bill Perry did. 

“You are just the schmuck that inherited Bill Perry's memories—and not
the only one at that. Your own martial accomplishments—or any sort of 
accomplishment, for that matter—are extraordinarily modest. 

“So now, every time you step up to the plate, you have something to
prove. That's not good Zen. You speculate, verbalize and stiffen up. 

“On top of all that, your body isn't an exact duplicate of Bill's, so
most of your moves are subtly off. You should be able to compensate for 
that in a very short while—but not when you're ‘Monkey-Minding' 
everything you do.” 

Bill sighed and shook his head while looking at the ground. 

“You're right Kogi, but what's to be done?” Bill asked. 

“First of all, don't despair. I'm pretty good and you still beat me more
often than not. Bill had any number of tools for dealing with ‘Monkey 
Mind'. Use them. Don't expect immediate success. Recognize that this 
situation is yet one more way to further master your skills. 

“When you do master this, you will be a true Master in every sense of
the word, with plenty of your own hours in the gym, or doing other 
sorts of training, to stack up against Bill Perry's.” 

Bill resumed teaching Steve again. Teaching was an excellent way to
learn. He set himself to doing some of the same tedious tasks that he'd 
given Steve. His own balance and sense of kinesthesia wasn't as 
exemplary as he'd thought, given that his software was in new hardware. 


He had meant to hotfoot it down to Harlan County to pick up a good
sniper rifle and some ammo at the retreat—but Kogi had convinced him 
that one of the other Bill Perry's had raided the retreat caches by 
now. Now there was no particular need to continue the trek. It was more 
than a bit of a letdown. 

“What do you intend to do now, Bill?” Kogi had asked. 

“Well, I had intended to go after that Major Schmidt and as many of his
henchmen as I could find, but that was when I thought that I was an 
expert rifle marksman, and had some fancy sniping rifles. Now I don't 
know,” Bill said. 

“I need to locate a good scoped bolt action rifle—and enough ammo to get
myself fully trained. I read somewhere that it takes about fifteen 
hundred rounds to make a true marksman. God knows where I'll get that 
much ammo,” Bill concluded dejectedly. 

“What you say Bill?” Kogi asked. “You'd have to space those rounds out
to get anywhere near maximum training benefit from them. Say fifty 
rounds per session—even that may be pushing it a bit—three times per 
week—with lots of dry-firing practice along the way, for about ten 
weeks. 

“Give us sixteen to twenty weeks. We'll get you a rifle with a quick
detach scope, night vision scope—what have you. I'm almost certain that 
we can get you a single shot .50 BMG too, with at least a hundred and 
fifty familiarizing and sighting shots,” Kogi continued. 

“You can continue to work out with us—we'll all benefit from the
training. It will also give you a chance to further train your 
apprentice. Will you accept, Bill?” Kogi asked him. 

****************** ***************** ******************** 

Bill accepted Kogi's offer to train. Bill's first four weeks of rifle
practice involved shooting a hundred rounds  of .22LR daily at ranges 
no more than one hundred yards at one of the Yakuza's underground 
indoor ranges. The recoil and blast of the .22s were minuscule—when one 
wore earplugs—so they could practice daily without fatigue or flinch. 

Steve trained alongside Bill. He would spot Bill's shots. Then they
reversed roles and Bill spotted for Steve. Steve fired as many of the 
rimfire rounds as Bill. In the evenings they worked on pistol 
marksmanship and hand-to-hand skills. Bill only had Steve fire his 
revolver weekly, but they did dry-fire drills nightly. 

Bill took some of his own advice, and spent long hours picking up
marbles with his toes and working his wrist-roller while standing on 
one foot. Her also spent some time every day meditating and learning to 
calm his mind. 

After a month, they picked up stakes and trekked halfway across the
State to another clubhouse. When Steve learned that they were going to 
move by means of nocturnal tactical marches at night—remarkably similar 
to him and Bill's marches—but on a larger scale, he was truly 
disappointed. 

“I thought y'all were a motorcycle club,” He groused. 

“We are, and we still use the bikes sometimes—but ethanol is short.
Besides, we're running silent and deep right now. Try as we might, we 
can't be as inconspicuous on the bikes,” Kogi explained. 

Bill found having to work as a part of a team particularly depressing,
but he persevered. 

When they arrived at the new hideout, there was an outdoor range. It was
an old trick to put twenty or so car tires on end, fastened firmly 
together. When the muzzle of a firearm was inserted a foot or so inside 
the rubber tunnel, the report was very effectively silenced. Of course 
it limited just exactly where they could fire. 

The Yakuza got around that drawback by having several sets of tires well
concealed at several locations—straight shots, uphill shots, downhill 
shots, shots across water—some ranges allowed two hundred yard shots, 
some allowed one thousand yard shots. 

It turned out that firing fifty well-aimed deliberate shots from a rifle
at one setting was a bit ambitious. Bill averaged thirty to thirty-five 
rounds per session. Steve, who lacked Bill's virtual experience, shot 
twelve to fifteen rounds per session. 

Every month they broke off rifle marksmanship training, and went on a
two or three week march to another hideout. About a dozen of the Yakuza 
stayed with Bill and Steve constantly, while another couple dozen 
rotated out every three or four weeks. 

The rotation gave Bill and Steve the chance to face many new opponents
in the constant gym wars. 

While the two men built upon and honed their skills, the Yakuza silently
did research on the ringleaders of the Terre Haute Massacre as they 
called it amongst themselves. When Bill felt ready to purse his 
vendetta almost a year later, the Yakuza presented him with a detailed 
list of his client's whereabouts and daily routines. 

******************* ******************** **************** 

Bill and Steve bade the Yakuza goodbye. If they lived, they would try to
stay in contact. Nothing was guaranteed in the fallen-apart World that 
they now inhabited. 

As the two men and the dog made their cautious way toward their first
client, Bill had plenty of time to ruminate about the new World they 
found themselves in. 

He had a new name: Bill Elder. It didn't make sense to go on thinking of
himself as “Bill Perry—the what?” Kogi knew of four others but there 
were almost certainly many other Bill Perrys that Kogi hadn't met. 

He no longer looked old and haggard, but he still had the waist-length
white hair that he generally braided. He did have very many years of 
experience, both the virtual years from the process, and the muddled 
years as a confused and unconscious amnesiac—as those years slowly 
became open to him. “Elder” was indeed a good surname for him. 

The Yakuza had largely rearmed them. Bill carried two 1911A1 Autos, in
twin holsters modeled after the old Chapman High-ride Holsters. He 
carried his custom Ruger .45 colt in a shoulder holster. A skilled 
Yakuza gunsmith had supplied him with a .45 ACP cylinder for the single 
action, so if wurst came to wurst, Bill could use some of his .45 
Auto's ammo in it. 

He carried a Savage Steven bolt action with a three-power scope and a
twenty-inch barrel. The rifle had back-up ghost-ring aperture sights. 
Bill followed Cooper's Dictum that even a sniper was highly unlikely to 
have to shoot much over thee hundred yards in the field. Outside of a 
few small hideouts, those were all the Guns that he carried. 

Steve had a Savage Steven much like Bill's, but he'd opted for a
twenty-six-inch barrel and a four-power scope. He carried his .357 
Magnum Ruger Security-Six. The Yakuza had found him a near twin—though 
the grips were Birdseye maple instead of fancy walnut. He had another 
Security-six, but this one had been fitted with an eight-inch Colt 
Python barrel, and rode in a shoulder holster. It had grips of Holly. 

The two men also carried twenty-four pounds of taken-down fifty caliber
between them, divided as equally as possible, and switched between them 
daily. 

Bill had always believed that chaos and breakdown in the cities would
result in mass exodus to the countryside, but that was extrapolated 
from when Bill Perry was a young man. People weren't as independent 
minded nowadays. By and large, the whole human race seemed listless and 
beaten down. 

The people had pretty much stayed put or let themselves be rounded up to
go to the refugee centers. No one had busted a gut to try to get the 
system up and working again. Well that wasn't precisely true, but the 
few go-getters hadn't altered the equation much in the end. 

According to the Yakuza's best intelligence—and they had spies and
double agents inside the occupation forces—about sixty percent of the 
people in North America were dead. Some countries had been hit even 
harder. Many of the survivors had come close enough to starving to 
death that they'd never be quite healthy again. And of course the NA 
would take a heavy tithe of the survivors, as they got older. 

The very best guestimate was that the population of Bill and Steve's
native Indiana was between three-and-a-half to perhaps four million 
people—and the numbers seemed destined to continue to shrink for at 
least another generation. 

Then as if things weren't bad enough, the coalition of blue bereted
United Nations Personnel and the remnants of the Federal, State and 
Local governments seemed determined to inflict a kind of parochial 
neo-socialism on the survivors—and they administered their whimsy with 
an iron fist. 

Bill more or less thought “To Hell with all of them” if they were
willing to lie down in the mud, and let tin pot UN dictators walk upon 
their supine bodies. But the folks from Terre Haute hadn't kissed the 
hand and licked the boots that abused them. They'd made a 
stand—arguably a stupid stand, but ultimately a brave one. Honour 
sometimes compels a man to follow a stupid and suicidal course. 

He didn't feel qualified to judge whether Bill Perry had lived a life of
Honour, or not. Certainly Bill Perry had lived and died in much more 
settled peaceful times. He'd never had to face choices like the 
contemporary Bill did. 

Bill Elder intended to live his life with Honour though. That included
killing the half-dozen officers involved in the Terre Haute Massacre—or 
die in the attempt. Afterwards, he'd be committed. The Coalition forces 
would never stop looking for him, once he made his presence 
unambiguously known. 

Well, what the hell? It's always a good day to die. Cowards theorize
with the goal of staying alive firmly in mind. 

It wasn't as if he had any home, or loved ones. It wasn't as if he could
ever have them in today's World—or ever. Bill Perry had never had wife 
nor children. As for the Zombie he'd once been—he neither knew nor 
cared. It didn't really touch upon his reality either way. 

************ ************************ ******************* 

Bill and Steve were in what had been downtown Indianapolis. They found
an ideal spot for a sniper's nest on the fifth floor of a partially 
burned building. There was a nice line of sight to the UN Headquarters. 
The fact that the building was a bit over six hundred yards away was 
immaterial to Bill. 

Actually, the distance was a slight plus. Bill had no strong preferences
on the subject but all else being equal, he'd rather survive to kill 
clients another day. 

Bill looked at the cranium of Major Schmidt—now Colonel Schmidt—through
the fifty's eighteen powered scope. Yes, there was the good Colonel. 
Captain Lambert—another client on Bill's list, accompanied him. He'd 
have time to get the Captain too. He decided to be greedy, and go for a 
third target before they started the rapid breakdown of the fifty 
caliber and executed a strategic retreat. 

The Liutenant General looked like a good tertiary target. Surely a man
with three stars riding on his shoulder was someone halfway important. 

Bill sighted on Colonel Schmidt's head. 

“One arrow; one life,” Bill told himself. 

One of Bill Perry's acquaintances had interpreted that line to mean:
“Kill a new client with each shot.” 

But to Bill, the Zen Archery Axiom meant that each shot taken in the
right spirit, was the Karmic equivalent of one life well-lived—not that 
he actually believed in Karma, since he was a Christian. 

But every shot done well and done in the proper spirit, added something
weighty to one's Worldly accomplishments—at the range, no less, but 
certainly no more—than a shot with game or client in the sights or 
cross-hair. 

“One arrow; one life,” Bill said. 

He was more than surprised when the trigger broke and the big fifty
pounded his shoulder. He was almost—though not entirely—astonished. His 
hands also surprised him as he deftly reloaded the single shot weapon 
at top speed, with no conscious thought. 

As Bill lined up his cross hairs on the second client, he had time to
think: “This is good Zen.” 

************************************************************************
**************** 


Chapter Ten 

Bill had no time to admire his handiwork. As soon as he pulled the big
rifle down out of recoil, he reloaded and aimed at his second and then 
his third client. 

Colonel Schmidt's head exploded into red vapor. Captain Smith's head had
also evaporated before the group had fully realized their peril. Then 
since the third client was purely extra credit, Bill didn't scruple to 
shoot him through the torso. 

The big fifty-caliber bullet shattered the Lieutenant General's left
shoulder, transversed both his lungs and then struck the right arm 
about halfway down the humerous—nearly severing the arm. The last shot 
added a good deal to the blood, gore and confusion. 

Steve, who was watching through the spotting scope, had a kaleidoscopic
impression of drawn pistols and guards with machine pistols running 
around. Everyone scanned the four winds, with little or no idea from 
what quarter they were being fired upon from. He only indulged for a 
second or two, before he turned to help Bill tear down the big rifle. 

They could take the fifty-caliber apart very rapidly—partly because
their actions were well rehearsed—partly because they could both stay 
calm under pressure. 

They had known that they were going to flee precipitously after they'd
completed their mission. They'd prepared for that eventuality, by 
leaving a lot of their gear cached outside the city. All that they had 
with them were their weapons, more ammo than they should ever 
reasonably need and enough concentrated rations to last them a couple 
days. 

It was only a day's walk into their position but Bill was prepared just
in case they had to hide and skulk a bit after their attack. If hunger 
became a real issue before they got outside the city, then they had a 
serious problem. 

Bill would have been much more reluctant to leave perfectly good food,
ammunition, clothing and what have you sitting around so close to the 
city but he knew that he could count on the Yakuza for resupply if 
necessary—at least he could count on them as much as he counted on any 
worldly aid. 

It wasn't that the Yakuza were remarkably generous. It was more that
they shared a common enemy. They knew that a given amount of supplies 
invested in the two-man team would yield far larger dividends that it 
would anywhere else. The fact that many of them had met and liked Steve 
and Bill only made it better. 

With about forty pounds less gear than they routinely carried, Bill and
Steve almost had to repress an airy bounce to their walk. 

When they got to the ground floor, they found Loki right where Bill had
commanded the big dog to wait—right at the foot of the first flight of 
stairs. Bill didn't like being separated from the dog—his dog now. He 
liked the idea of exposing the dog's ears to fifty-caliber muzzle blast 
even less. 

He and Steve wore plugs and earmuffs; the big Gun sported a modest
suppressor—and it was still loud. 

“Scout for clients,” Bill told the big dog. 

Loki walked about thirty yards ahead of them. A casual observer might
not have even realized that they were a team. If the dog sensed any 
people whatever, he would freeze—somewhat like a primitive point. 

He wasn't a pointer, after all. Nonetheless, all dogs had the instinct
to freeze in place when encountering prey. The instinct could be built 
upon—to a degree. The command, “Scout for game” was subtly different. 

It would have included people of course. Just because they were hunting
was no sign that they wanted to walk into an ambush. But game included 
anything from a rabbit or possum, up to a two-ton feral bull. 

By specifying clients, he was fairly certain that he wouldn't get too
many false alarms over pigeons or alley cats. Bill had never had any 
success with training dogs, but some of the Yakuza were master dog 
handlers. 

When the dog came to a turning point, a low whistle from Bill told the
dog to wait—and also clued him which way they intended to go, so he 
could focus his attention that direction. Bill didn't want the dog out 
of line of sight if possible. He couldn't warn them and they couldn't 
protect him when he was out of sight. 

There was even a signal to tell the dog they were retreating, and to
hide and trail them after a reasonable interval. 

They walked briskly, but without undue haste. If someone got close
enough, he'd see their rifles. But there was no need to alert people 
who were several blocks away that they were up to something. 

A few blocks from the shooting position, they went to ground in an
overgrown lot. Fortunately there were many such lots around. In fact 
the lot linked with several other similar lots. They were able to 
travel almost a quarter mile that way, completely hidden from sight. 

Then they ducked into a trapdoor entrance that they'd improvised out of
a sheet of plywood and some trash, covering what had once been an 
outside set of stairs down into a basement under an old building. 
Falling debris—or whatever, had blocked all the other entrances to the 
basement. 

That is, access to the basement was reasonably restricted. Bill wasn't
going to do a detailed survey, including crawling through sewers and 
storm drains. Even paranoia had limits. 

They had cached a ground cloth and some old blankets in the basement. It
wasn't cold, but it was a bit damp and clammy. Bill distrusted 
discomfort. It could affect the most dedicated Warrior's judgment. 

It might make him move from an uncomfortable position too soon. Another
time it might cause him to overstay somewhere, to postpone future 
discomfort. Since it was all subjective anyway, it was hard to 
compensate for. 

Bill's remedy of first resort was to make every effort to keep himself
as comfortable as possible. He would take quite a few pains to that 
end—not from weakness, at least he didn't like to think so—but from 
thoroughness. 

They had a nice cold meal and one of them kept watch while the other
slept. Since they'd cached extra food in the basement, it didn't 
subtract from their two-day's rations. Anything that they left behind 
would be forever abandoned. 

The basement was too ideal a hiding place. It was too tempting. If it
were discovered in their absence, anyone who'd happened on it would be 
sure to prepare some sort of nasty surprise to await their return. It 
was wiser to make a clean break. 

*********** ******************************* ************* 

They left about thirty hours later, just after nightfall. They were
moving along from cover to cover, shadow to shadow. There was a curfew, 
of course, but relatively few Laws to enforce the curfew. What few Laws 
that the city did have, tended to ride around in groups of at least a 
half a dozen. Consequently they were fairly easy to avoid. 

Bill kept Loki close to him at night. He divided his attention between
watching the dog and his own survey of the environment. He knew that 
the dog's senses were a good bit keener than his own. 

It was warm enough that he could feel the sweat running down his back
and between his buttocks. For Bill, that was one of the most 
uncomfortable aspects of sweating. He licked the salty sweat off his 
upper lip. He would be very glad to get out of the city. 

Bill Perry had possessed an almost rabid loathing for the city of
Indianapolis. Bill reminded himself that he wasn't Bill Perry. He 
needn't share the man's every preference. 

Bill Elder didn't necessarily hate Indianapolis. He hated all urban
areas equally. They were all enemy territory—hard to hide in, and they 
were all potential deathtraps. 

Despite Bill's anxious vigilance, they ended up right in the middle of a
patrol. There was a half-squad of troopers moving cautiously down the 
street—for some unguessable reason. Perhaps they were in the midst of a 
training exercise. For whatever reason, they were moving three on one 
side of the road, four on the other side, with about ten yards between 
them. 

Loki should have heard or smelled them. Bill or Steve should have
sighted them—but they were sandwiched in between the troopers before 
they fully realized their situation. Fortunately they were concealed in 
the shadows when they first caught sight of the soldiers. 

Bill's rifle was slung securely on his back, out of the way. A bolt
action was better than any other rifle for almost any purpose—except 
for a quick shoot-out at spitting distance. For that, a semi-auto was 
preferable—though a lever action or a pump would do within a hair as 
well. Bill had decided to rely on his 1911A1s for up-close-and-personal 
encounters. 

Steve had brought along his Witness Protection shotgun. Bill had been
surprised to see him pull it out of his pack, when they'd cached 
them—not that Bill would have cared if Steve had chosen to haul a 
bowling ball around with him. Steve had it loaded with the flechette 
loads the Yakuza had given him. Good for penetrating body armor. 

Bill had his right hand on his right-hand .45 and was reassuring Loki
with his free hand. The big dog knew that he had a beef with the UN 
Troopers. He drew his lips back in a fierce snarl and growled almost 
silently. 

Bill was focused left and Steve right. Just when it looked like the
troopers would move on without spotting them, Loki broke loose from 
Bill and charged the soldiers to their left. He let out a great baying 
battle cry as he charged. 

Even then they could probably have remained hidden, but it would have
doomed the big dog. Bill gave a mental shrug as he drew his .45 and 
started gunning down the troops. He assumed that they were wearing 
light body armor. He went for headshots. None of them were over eight 
yards away, but the light was dim. He fired a three to four shot burst 
at each head. 

“Pow-Pow-Pow!” The first UN Trooper fell. “Pow-Pow; Pow-Pow-Pow!” Number
two went down. The first magazine was an eight rounder; so Bill had a 
round in the chamber as he dropped the spent magazine to the ground. 

Bill could reload a .45 Semi-Auto fast enough that there was no
perceivable pause in his rapid fire. A four round burst took out the 
third trooper. He looked around, but couldn't find any more targets. 

“Three down here!” Bill sang out. 

“Three down here!” Steve responded. 

“Damn! We're short one,” Bill shouted back. “MOVE!” 

Bill dropped the partially spent magazine and reloaded as he ran five
long steps to the next patch of shadow. He surveyed all around him, 
looking for the last UN Trooper. 

He shook his head ruefully. He hadn't exactly been following good Combat
Pistol tactics—but what the hell? The rapid-fire bursts had done the 
job, and done it extremely rapidly. He'd used up Beaucoup ammo and 
sacrificed a couple magazines; but he had enough loaded magazines 
remaining to run two or three IPSC Matches. 

There were more magazines and ammo with their packs. He'd also buried
several thousand rounds and dozens of magazines as he and the Yakuza 
had toured the countryside—the exact locations known only to him. Steve 
had caches too—though he hadn't cached nearly as fanatically as Bill. 

The only real limiting factor had been the amount of time they'd wanted
to spend digging holes and committing sites to memory. The Yakuza 
seemed to have a bottomless supply. They claimed to manufacture their 
own, and Bill saw no reason to doubt their word. 

Bill was mighty unhappy about the missing soldier. He might be somewhere
out of sight this very moment, drawing a bead on him, or Steve, or 
Loki... 

“Speaking of Loki, where in hell was he?” Bill wondered to himself. 

He heard a thump, and some loud growling. Loki had the man by the right
forearm and was trying to shake the lower arm loose from his body. 
Apparently the man had broke off to stalk them, to try to flank 
them—but Loki had been stalking him. As Loki savaged him, the man tried 
frantically to draw the bayonet on his left side. 

Steve ran up to point-blank range and aimed his Shotgun. 

“Wait! You might hit Loki!” Bill screamed. 

Bill walked briskly to where the three of them were. He holstered his
.45 and drew a long bladed dagger with his left hand. He waited 
momentarily for an opening. Then he grabbed the client's helmet with 
his right hand and forced the neck open. He ran the blade through the 
neck in back of the sterno-mastoids and cut forward severing everything 
but the spinal column. 

Loki continued to worry the client's corpse for a few moments. Then he
stopped and lapped at the pool of blood momentarily. Curious, Bill 
carefully tasted the side of his knife blade with his tongue, and then 
shrugged. It tasted no different from any other kind of blood to him. 

“That dog is going to get us killed,” Steve complained; as Bill wiped
his blade clean on his client's uniform. 

“We're already dead. 

“ Life: It's sexually transmitted and invariably fatal. Anyway, the Way
of the Warrior is the Way of death. Let's split now though and try to 
delay the inevitable a little longer...” Bill said. 

*********** ********************************* *********** 

It was five weeks later when they rendezvoused with Kogi. 

“Word is that you got five out of six on your hit-list, along with
numerous folks who just happened to be in uniform and in the general 
area,” Kogi told them. “You've done well.” 

“I need to talk to you Kogi,” Bill said. “Everyone is wearing soft body
armor nowadays and headshots at night aren't all that cool. Years ago I 
read—Bill Perry read—an article in “Soldier of Fortune” magazine. It 
was a test report on a special Ruger Mini-14. It had a folding stock; 
thirteen inch barrel and it was set up for three round bursts. 

“Don't remember the model number—doesn't matter. They were ‘Law
Enforcement Only.' You'd never locate one. I figure that one of your 
armorers can cook one up though. I want a Choate-style stock. I want a 
vortex style flash suppressor. I can live without the three round 
bursts. 

“I want about two-dozen twenty-four round magazines. The thirties are
too bulky. Twenty-four comes to eight three-round bursts. If 
fabricating them is too much bother, I'll go with twenties,” Bill 
concluded. 

“I can have that all for you in about ten days. What load do you want
the barrel rifled for?” Kogi said nonchalantly. 

“Anything that I want?” Bill asked. 

“Sure, if it's doable, we can do it.” 

“I want an oviate rifled bore set up to use sixty-eight grain boat-tail
soft points but usable with the standard fifty-five grain bullets—say 
to two to three MOA? Also, the forearm—can it be some nicely figured 
wood, instead of plastic?” 

“No problem. Bill, I need to talk to y'all. How do you think the
coalition is planning to grow enough food to feed the survivors?” 

“Beats me. Almost everything is shut down There doesn't seem to be any
good way to bootstrap everything back up without a huge die-off in the 
meantime.” 

“They're staring up a small factories to make roto-tillers. They can use
warehoused Briggs and Stratton engines to start. The advantage that 
tillers have over farm tractors is that they can be produced on a much 
smaller scale. There are many small companies with presses big enough 
to turn out tiller parts,” Kogi began. 

“That shows more ingenuity than I'd give them credit for. Two points: It
will be very labor intensive to farm large-scale with garden 
tillers—though not nearly as back-breaking as trying to cultivate the 
same acreage with hoes and shovels and point two: where do they get 
hydrocarbons?” Bill observed. 

“There are enough small wells locally to get them started. Eventually
they'll switch to using all ethanol,” Kogi said. 

“Yeah well, as long as everyone has to grow enough grain to eat and to
turn into fuel, the human population will never be able to climb back 
to what it once was. That isn't altogether a bad thing,” Bill 
commented. 

“Perhaps not, but slave labor is a bad thing. Forced-labor camps are a
bad thing. Free born Americans busting their backs, only to have most 
of their product shipped east—or to Europe—is a bad thing,” Kogi began. 
He started talking a bit in rhythm like an old-timey preacher. 

“That's what we'd like to enlist you and Steve for. We want to liberate
one of the camps. We have some semi-Auto fifties, and we'd like to have 
you and Steve manning a pair during the assault. Skilled fifty caliber 
rifle marksmen are hard to come by. Will you help?” Kogi continued. 

“Sure, why not? I sure would like to get my Ruger back first though. I'm
really looking forward to having that Gun,” Bill said. 

“Don't worry about that. We still have a few weeks of training and
planning before we move. Oh and by the way, your number six is the XO 
of the camp we're liberating.” 

************************************************************************
************ 


Chapter Eleven 

Bill examined the labor camp through his binoculars. The people inside
wore ragged clothes and they were all painfully thin. Apparently their 
taskmasters weren't high on the idea of not muzzling the oxen that 
mills the corn. 

Looking at the camp through the binoculars served no real purpose,
except to satisfy Bill's curiosity. He had a very narrow, limited role 
to play in the liberation of the camp—but it was a vital role 
nonetheless. 

When the attack began, it was Bill's job to kill everyone in his
assigned guard tower. There were a dozen of the towers spaced 
more-or-less evenly around the fenced perimeter. There was a three-man 
fifty caliber sniping team for each tower. 

The Yakuza were never ones to leave even the smallest detail to chance.
When Bill cleared his assigned tower, he had a secondary and a tertiary 
tower. So if someone's rifle jammed, or some such, there would be 
others to take up the slack. 

“One minute,” his spotter told him. 

Bill put his eye to the scope. He knew that his spotter was counting
down to attack time—though Bill couldn't hear him through his hearing 
protection. 

“Five, four, three, two, one...” The man counted aloud. He touched Bill
lightly on the shoulder as he said each number. 

At the fifth tap, Bill started his trigger squeeze. He hit the guard
closest to the tripod-mounted machine Gun with his first shot. He 
couldn't see the results of his shot, due to the great recoil, but his 
spotter's tap let him know that he'd been on target. 

He fired until he'd cleared the tower. There were a couple clients left
at his secondary target, and he quickly eliminated them too. Finally, 
with nothing more pressing to occupy his time, he shot a few soldiers 
on the ground. 

The battle—if one could call such a brief route “a battle”—was over in
minutes. The best Bill could tell, the machine Gun towers were a mere 
formality to discourage folks from leaving before they'd stayed their 
welcome. Apparently it had never occurred to them that someone might 
storm the gates. 

Bill stood up and went to reclaim his dog. He liked the Yakuza, and the
big semi-auto fifty was a good Gun—but it wasn't his. His job was to do 
the trigger work. How the rest of the team transported the big Gun—or 
even if they were able to save it, was no real concern of Bill's. 

************** ************************* **************** 

“I never saw the like!” Kogi spat. “Over half of them wouldn't leave.
They told us in no uncertain terms that they had a good thing going, 
and they didn't appreciate our kibitzing.” 

“What's so great about being in a forced labor camp?” Bill wondered. 

“Well to hear them tell it, they got fed three times a day. They had a
clean dry bed—winter and summer, and the camp had running water. They 
got to take a brief lukewarm shower every night. At least we don't have 
nearly so many to find situations for.” 

“How do you think those troops will treat those who stayed—after all
their fellow countrymen were butchered?” Bill asked. 

“Who cares?” Kogi said. 

“I think you're wrong there. One of the goals of guerilla warfare is to
force the occupying force to take such draconian measures that they 
become your best recruiters. 

“If you're bound and determined to do this liberation thing, I think
that you should do everything that you possibly can to make the 
coalition forces hate the natives. 

“But I don't see a lot of future in trying to free people who cherish
their chains,” Bill said. 

************ ****************************** ************ 

“Bill, you've taught me a lot—and I appreciate it; but I think it's time
for us to go our separate ways now,” Steve said. 

Bill was a little surprised. Steve hadn't given any indication that he
was thinking of leaving. The proclamation left him unmoved though. 
Steve was a strange person. Bill couldn't honestly say that he'd ever 
thought of Steve as a friend. 

He'd once thought that Steve was a typical chucklehead—what with his
throwing stars, nunchaku and brass knuckles. He wasn't exactly a 
chucklehead. He would obediently set out to accomplish any task Bill 
assigned him—always with a fervid joyless focus that was unnerving. 

He couldn't ever remember hearing Steve laugh, or even smile—and he
never made small talk. 

“Good luck Steve. By the way, if you don't mind me asking—what were you
doing in that government sponsored section eight nightmare?” 

Bill had never seen Steve smile, but he smiled now. 

“You really can't guess? Severe autism—of course they were trying some
new therapeutic modalities out on me. Otherwise I'd never have spoken 
to you and started my apprenticeship. If things hadn't fallen apart 
right when they did, they were onto something that would have helped 
many autistics. 

“Never mind though—I have all the info right here,” Steve said while
pointing to his cranium. I have total recall, and I paged through the 
lab books many times. No reason not to let me, and it kept me out of 
worse mischief when they were between tests.” 

************ ************************** ***************** 

“Bill, I need to ask you something,” Kogi said. “Are you gay?” 

Bill gave Kogi a look—undecided if he should be amused or insulted. Then
the gross uncertainty with which he addressed any personal question 
that he hadn't yet considered set in. He mulled the question over for a 
moment. 

First he asked himself if there were any memories of homosexuality in
Bill Perry's hard-drive. That was an easy “No.” Had this body ever 
taken part in such goings on? —Unknown and unknowable. 

However, even assuming for the sake of argument that it had—had it left
any lingering urges on the chimera creation that was Bill Elder? No, it 
had not. 

“Sorry to disappoint you Kogi,” Bill said while shaking his head in the
negative. “Why? Were you looking for a date?” 

“No, no! I have a potential new apprentice for you—a girl. I didn't want
to saddle you with a girl, if you didn't like girls. 

“This girl—she's smart, and tough. She's not Yakuza material though—too
much of a loner. She's like you, in a way. Will you take her on?” 

“Bring her out and let me meet her,” Bill said. 

“Bill, even today there's reason for a gay man to conceal his
orientation. There is absolutely no reason for a straight man to do so. 
So if you're not gay...” 

“Yes, I'm all but sexless. Bill Perry regarded the idea of one-night
stands, and casual sex with a kind of horror and revulsion. He wasn't 
opposed to long-term relationships but for himself, he regarded 
entanglements as a sort of trap. He was too footloose to want to be 
tied down. 

“Bill wasn't a saint. He found himself in a whorehouse a few times in
his life and he had a handful of abortive courtships over the years—but 
he stuck to his principles far more often than not. By the time he was 
fifty-ish, he'd pretty much killed the monster. 

“This body was old. It has been revived but the revival hasn't reached
as far as the saddle horn yet. I could consciously try to awaken the 
dragon—though I don't know if I'd succeed or not. It may awake someday 
on its own. 

“I am more than content to let it sleep for now. In fact, if I knew some
non-invasive way to insure that it never awoke; I'd be sorely tempted,” 
Bill concluded. 

************ ******************************* ************ 

Bill's new apprentice turned out to be a six-foot, two hundred and
twenty pound black girl. She was all of fifteen years old. He wasn't 
too surprised at her size—having seen a number of queen-sized women in 
his life. 

He was a little surprised at her age. Upon reflection though, she'd be
better off roaming the countryside with him, than impressed into a UN 
Sanctioned Brothel or imprisoned in a labor camp. 

Bill took her more or less on the same circuit that he'd traveled with
Steve. They'd travel a week—or two—or even three. Then they'd stop at a 
Yakuza base for a couple weeks. They'd eat Yakuza grub, shoot lots of 
Yakuza practice ammo and restock their supplies. 

Most of the bases had at least a few Yakuza in residence so there were
partners for Tarda to play Judo with, spar with and shoot against. 

Bill found his own ability continue to grow since he was no longer
trying to rush anything. None of the sparring partners who came forward 
had anywhere near Bill's skills—but he'd mastered an approach where 
every session taught him something, despite the rather low level of 
competition. 

Almost two years went by that way, the only break in the sameness of the
routine being when Bill was asked to help liberate a couple other 
camps. Then Kogi took the time to track them down in the field. 

“Bill, the coalition forces have become unambiguously aware of you. They
consider you a loose end. They seriously don't groove on loose ends. 
They've sent a hit team after you. One of our moles managed to send us 
a coded message to warn you.” 

“So what they throwing my way? A platoon of Rangers?” Bill tried to
joke. 

“I wish that was all Bill. They're sending two Bill Perrys. One got his
memory download about seven years ago. It was viable form the start, so 
they sent him straight to two years boot camp in their elite training 
facility. 

“He's been logging missions for five years. The other is a couple years
younger. He's only been logging missions for a little over three years. 


“They've hired your old partner Steve as a special liaison—and they have
a crack seven-man team of Rangers—picked from the absolute cream of 
their Rangers. 

“They'll go on hunting you as long as any one of them is alive. Any one
of them is a serious threat—on his own. Together...” 

“Tarda, I want you to stay with Kogi,” Bill said. 

“NO!” She replied. 

“I don't see any possible way to prevail against those odds. They're
sending ME after me—two MEs—matter of fact—two younger, fitter, 
sharper, crueler, more ruthless Mes, with a seven-man Ranger team, and 
an ex-student of mine thrown in for good measure. No, there's no way to 
beat that...” 

“Who cares? Didn't you tell me that cowards theorize with the goal of
staying alive held firmly in mind? If you insist on fighting with the 
handicap of desiring to live, then it is already a hopeless task. 

“I thought you'd taught me better Zen than that,” Tarda pointed out. 

Bowing played very little part in Bill's martial arts system; but Tarda
had hit something so wonderfully straight atop the head, that he felt 
compelled to give her a deep heartfelt bow. 

He had been looking at the thing all askew—wondering how he might
survive. Such thoughts would always lurk in the background, ready to 
muddy a Warrior's thoughts. But every time that he put such cowardly 
thoughts firmly to one side; it became dramatically easier to do so the 
next time. 

Though this time though, the monkey-mind had caught him completely off
guard. He was that much less likely to ever be blind-sided that way 
again. 

“Bill, I'd like to ask you to lead your clients out of Indiana. They're
highly likely to spoil many of our plans serendipitously. Can you take 
your show on the road?” Kogi asked. 

“You know, I've never seen Kentucky or Tennessee with these eyes—at
least so far as I know. Time to remedy that,” Bill said. 

“I have a nice GPS for each of you, and a nice little back-up for each
of you too. There's a list of caches for each of you—mutually 
exclusive. This device is both holographic and Mnemonic. One one-minute 
look into the thing should fix it in your memory indefinitely. 

“However, if it were me, I'd make sure that I'd imprinted it on each eye
at least two or three times. Destroy it after you have it imprinted. A 
simple stomp should do it.” 

The gadget that Kogi had given each of them looked for all the World
like a magic Easter egg, with an abstract hologram inside. 

Bill gazed at it for about ninety seconds with his left eye. Then having
Tarda keep time, he spent three separate ninety-second intervals 
looking into the device with either eye alternatively. 

Then after she spent the same time looking into hers with either eye, he
looked at it one last time with each eye. Somewhere in his 
subconscious—supposedly—were locations for quite a few caches and 
hiding places that would only intrude on his consciousness when they 
were sorely needed. 

Never mind a single stomp. Bill ground both the devices together between
two rocks and put the finely ground powder into small plastic bag. 

“We'll scatter this in the Ohio when we get there. Chances of recovering
even trace particles nearly zero. Now let us meditate,” Bill said. 

“I should think that every moment is crucial at this juncture. Why waste
time meditating?” Tarda asked. 

“Time is of the essence—and there is no better use of time than to get
one's head straight. I nearly lost my Zen mind when I found out about 
this hit-team coming after me. I may be struck down within the first 
quarter-mile of the march—but it won't be from marching along in 
monkey-mind,” Bill explained. 

************************************************************************
************** 


Chapter Twelve 

“The Wide and Beautiful River,” Bill said. 

“What?” Tarda queried. 

“The Ohio. In one of the Indian languages it means, ‘Wide and Beautiful
River',” Bill explained. 

“Awfully compact language,” Tarda opined. 

“Wouldn't know. Don't speak any Indian languages. Since the ‘O' sound is
repeated, I'd assume that it means something like ‘Great'. In the first 
instance, it's translated as ‘great: as in big—or wide.' In the second 
instance, it's translated as ‘great: as in impressive—or beautiful'. 

“Things like that always lose in translation. If I got it right, it
would be pure happenstance that the word ‘great' shares two separate 
meanings both in English, and the Indian tongue.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well in English, the word ‘run' means fast locomotion—as in,' He ran
(1) away.' It can also mean a mechanical device is functioning—as in 
‘The engine runs (2)'. 

“In most languages, if you say the engine ‘ran'; you're implying a
cartoon-like image where the motor sprouted limbs and went locomoting 
down the boulevard. ‘Run (1) and run (2) are completely dissimilar 
words. 

“Whatever. Right now we need to focus on how to get ourselves safely
across the river,” Bill concluded. 

“Is it that big a deal?” The young woman asked him. 

“Sadly, in the modern world it is. There's several bridges—both auto and
Railroad, but any of them still standing is almost certainly guarded by 
someone. 

“Swimming a big river like this is very dangerous. We might make it
without incident but if we get snagged by a current or clobbered by a 
big floating tree or just find out that we're not as good a swimmers as 
we thought—won't be any lifeguards. There won't be any do-over either. 

“Getting across, but losing all our gear—or even a significant portion
of it—would be almost as bad as drowning. Even if we didn't lose 
everything, getting all our stuff thoroughly soaked does nothing good 
for our cause.” 

“So what's the solution?” Tarda asked. 

“Sit here and discuss semantics and syntax—no! No, that's not what I
meant. We could build a raft—laboriously. We could get it across the 
river with a good deal more labor. It would be a better risk—but not 
risk free. Or we could find a good-sized log—big enough to float our 
gear, and help us kick across. That's less work than a raft—but 
somewhat riskier too...” 

“So what are we gonna do?” Tarda insisted. 

“We're going to travel cautiously along the river-bank, like we did the
Wabash. We're going to be on the lookout for a johnboat that we can buy 
or hire. An ounce of gold ought to be quite generous, either to buy a 
johnboat or to get someone to merely ferry us—which I'd prefer. 

“Hell, we got gold. If an ounce won't motivate, we'll try two or three
ounces.” 

“Won't giving some yokel a handful of gold to ferry us across the river,
point an arrow to where we entered the Dark and Bloody Grounds?” She 
asked. 

“I certainly hope so.” 

************ *********************************** ************* 

Bill gestured at Tarda to stay out of sight. He kept Loki close to him
most of the time. The big dog could pretty much handle a man in a 
fight—but so would a single .30 caliber rifle bullet. 

A .30-30 or a .30-06 cartridge was far lighter than Loki, didn't eat and
drink and took far less maintenance. Get right down to it; a 
well-placed .30-30 or a .30-06 would pretty much ruin Loki too, so far 
as that went. 

Bill treasured Loki, but he thought of the big dog as more of an early
warning and game locating mechanism—particularly wounded game—rather 
than an antipersonnel device. When bullets started flying, he wanted 
Loki out of harm's way. 

Tarda insisted on having a pack of four Bloodhounds and a Fox Hound—only
because she couldn't find a fifth Bloodhound when she'd wanted to add 
to her entourage. He let her acquire the dogs, because she was an 
absolute genius with them. 

Bill was good at catching rabbits, squirrel, songbirds and the
occasional coon or groundhog. He caught a fair number of crawdeads, 
turtles and snakes in warm weather. 

He wasn't a bad fisherman but he wasn't a great one either. He mainly
lived on possum though. The smilies were easy and due to his long 
specialization, he could find a possum in twenty or thirty minutes, 
when any other outdoorsman would have sworn that there were none within 
twenty miles. 

Since Tarda had joined him though, they feasted regularly on venison,
feral hogs, feral beef—and all sorts of good things. Bears and elk were 
making modest comebacks since the population was both shrinking and 
becoming more concentrated in the remaining urban centers. 

There were muskrats, porcupine and the occasional beaver. There were
wild turkeys and feral chickens. Crows, pigeons and doves abounded. 

Tarda wore several dog whistles of varying pitch—though all of them were
inaudible to human ears. Her dogs ranged far afield and she had a huge 
repertoire of commands they responded to. If anything happened to 
Tarda, Bill would have been hard pressed to utilize all the dog's 
capabilities. 

All the dogs were reputed to be the result of modest attempts at genetic
engineering. While they had far better night vision than a human, 
during daylight hours they could perceive colors as well as a man. 
Several modest areas of the brain had also been given light nudges. For 
some reason, light nudges generally brought some big dividends—but 
major alterations generally bollixed things. 

Be all that as it may, when Bill signaled Tarda to fade from view;
although her dogs may well have been scattered over four or five acres, 
a short coded blast on one of her whistles put all of them into stealth 
mode too. 

“Peace old man,” Bill said gently. 

He had prudently taken up position behind a tree before he spoke
out—just in case the old fart was trigger-happy. 

The old man had a big pump shotgun. It looked like a Mossberg 590—not
that Bill was too concerned by the Gun's precise providence. 

“Truth be told, if I'd wanted to bushwhack you I'd have already done so.
I want to step out and parley,” Bill said distinctly, but without too 
much threatening volume. 

“How do you know that I won't bushwhack you?” the old man asked. 

“Wait ‘till you see my dog. You might get him. You might get me. Getting
both of us at close range—before one of us rocked your World would be 
problematical. 

“'Sides, I'm a civilized gent—but my partner, she's always looking for
dog food. Ain't real particular where she gets it...” 

The old man had a johnboat and he told them that he was running a
trot-line and working out of Tell City, though he said that he was 
working far west of where he usually fished. He was eighty-three years 
old, free of any sort of senility and remarkably healthy for his age. 

He was too old for the labor camps. He kept from being sent to one of
the refugee camps by bribing some of the UN officials with catfish. 
Food was scarce—particularly high quality protein. Not many folks knew 
how to run a trotline anymore, or had the gumption either. What he 
didn't eat of the rest of his fish, he traded for salt, coffee, 
cornmeal, sugar and flour. 

The old dude also ran modest trap lines in winter; gathered a few edible
plants for his own use, and medicinal herbs for some of the townsfolk 
as well. He also bagged a deer every now and again. 

In the current economy, he was a highly successful entrepreneur. He had
no interest in selling his boat, but he was more than happy to ferry 
them across the river—and fix them a big catfish dinner on the Kentucky 
side. 

As the old man prepared to leave, Bill hung over the boat and conferred
quietly with the old man. 

“Is that shotgun the only Gun that you have?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Man ought to have some kind of pistol or revolver. I carry a few Guns
for trading purposes. Maybe I'm carrying a few too many. Need to 
lighten my load. I have a six-inch Smith and Wesson Model 19 here. Got 
a modest waist holster, a hundred twenty rounds of .357 and fifty 
rounds of .38 Special. Getting' rid of all that ought to lighten me 
about ten pounds,” Bill said. 

“What do you want for it?” 

“Nothing. You took me across the river and then you fed me—all without
charge. One good turn deserves another. There is a bargain that I'd 
like to strike with you now but you can have the Gun regardless.” 

The bargain was struck for five ounces of gold, and a dozen rounds of
Twelve Gauge 00 Buck—all Bill had with him. The gold would have been 
sufficient, but Bill was generous—plus he did intend to run relatively 
light for a while. 

*********** ******************************* ************* 

The old man waited until Bill had left. Then he rowed back across the
river and quietly trailed Bill for about a half a day. He wasn't 
anyone's fool. Someone throwing that kind of wealth around was on the 
run from someone or something. 

A man with Bill's obvious skills, top-notch weapons and a taciturn
side-kick with a pack of genetically enhanced killer dogs—and yet 
fleeing, would be fleeing something heavy—like solid... 

The old man camped along the river for three more days. He built up a
big bonfire at night and ran a smudgy fire through the daylight hours. 
His vigil paid off on the third day. 

“Hold it right there, old timer. What are you up too?” 

The Ranger quickly frisked the old man. He confiscated his Model 19 .357
and a couple hunting knives. Another of the Rangers grabbed the old 
man's shotgun, where it leaned against a tree. 

“A man with long white hair—down to his waist long—and a bunch of bead
necklaces traded me that .357 and a hundred rounds of ammo, to take him 
to The Dark and Bloody ground. 

“I figured that someone would come looking for him. Figured that they'd
be willing to pay to know which way that he was headed. Are you?” 

The Rangers regarded him intently. They seemed to be deciding whether to
eat, rape or kill him—or perhaps some combination. 

“Look, he tried to bribe me to steer you the wrong way. He gave me
silver!” 

The old man showed them two rolls of junk silver quarters. 

“But I wouldn't try that with killers like y'all. You'll know that
you're on the right trail, because I'll put you right on it. You'll be 
able to tell,” He added desperately. 

Steve regarded the man contemptuously. 

“We can't track ‘till dawn. I have a cache near here. I'll be back
before dawn,” Steve said. 

“What for?” The senior Bill Perry asked him. 

“To get some trade goods for this Judas,” Steve said. 

************** *********************** ****************** 

Steve returned just before dawn, just as he had promised. He was
carrying a smaller knapsack across his shoulder, in addition to his 
regular pack. 

“All this is yours,” he told the old man. “I want to be sure that
whatever Bill paid you, that I've out-bid him. Something else to 
consider too—Bill's a honourable man. He won't come back and torture 
you for days, if you sell him out. I probably won't either. 

“But if you cross us, and even one of these fine gentlemen survive...”
Steve let the statement hang ominously. 

“Here, take your silver back—we don't need it. There are five more rolls
of silver quarters and a roll of silver dimes thrown in, for good 
measure. There are four hundred rounds of .357 in this knapsack; along 
with a two-and-a-half Inch Model 19; A hundred and twenty rounds of 
mixed buckshot and slugs; And a Witness Protection Remington 870 with a 
fourteen-Inch Barrel and a plow-handle grip. 

“Take the pack. I trust you. Give the man his Guns back. He ain't stupid
enough to try anything,” Steve demanded. 

The old man ferried them across the river. Then he showed them where
he'd laboriously worked out Bill's route and blazed the trail. 

When the old man had followed them for about an hour past where he'd
turned back when tracking Bill on his own, Steve called him over. 

“You did a good job old man. If I were you, I'd make myself scarce
around here for a while. Otherwise someone might get the idea that 
you're trying to hook up with Bill Elder,” Steve said. 

The old man had no desire to hook-up with Bill. He planned to go sell
his fish and take some time to camp out East of Tell City—somewhere 
he'd be very hard to dig out. 

*********** ***************************** *************** 

Bill was waiting in ambush as the UN Team came around a bend in the
trail. He had a modest suppressor on his Savage-Stevens .308 Bolt 
Action. It wouldn't completely suppress the muzzle blast—let alone the 
supersonic crack. It would make it harder to locate his position—and 
although he wanted them to find his position, he didn't want them to do 
it right away. 

Bill sighted on a Ranger and fired. Three hundred and fifty yards away,
the client fell with a solid chest hit. Before anyone really had time 
to realize his predicament, Bill caught the second Ranger through the 
chest. 

Ordinarily it would be time to split. Instead, for the first time, Bill
got a clear shot at one of the Bills. He hit the man low—a gut-shot. He 
wanted a confirmed kill—not a maybe—so he shot the client again. 
Everyone was pretty well under cover now, and firing at Bill's 
position. 

Bill had planned on them firing at him. His only exposure was a narrow
firing slit. When they ran low on ammo, and slacked off a bit, he 
managed to hit a moving Ranger in the shoulder. 

Then something that every sniper dreaded happened—they managed to pin
Bill down so that he couldn't retreat. They started using suppressive 
fire and maneuver tactics. First one, then another of the clients 
advanced on Bill's position willy-nilly. 

Bill hadn't been completely incautious. He'd positioned Tarda to be able
to give him some supportive fire—“some” being the operant term—“some” 
but not much... 

Nonetheless, Tarda managed to take out one of the Rangers and wound
another—before they pinned her down worse than Bill. 

As the last of the remaining Rangers, one Bill Perry and Steve rushed
the position; something warned Steve to hang back a little. 

At the very last possible moment, Bill sprung his trap. There were seven
Claymore mines aimed in overlapping fields of fire, all along the only 
logical avenue for the clients to file into; There was also five 
grenades, a dozen of the Yakuza equivalent of “Bouncing Betties” and 
several land mines. 

About half the landmines were set off by the same radio signal that set
off all the Claymores. 	All the Grenades and all the Bouncing Betties 
exploded simultaneously. 

The rest of the landmines lay in wait, to destroy those who fled to
either side of the trail. 

Steve's instincts had saved him any serious injury. By sheer
coincidence, the Junior Bill Perry wasn't seriously injured. All the 
other clients were wiped out. 

“I take it that you wanted to end this quickly. It could drag out for
months now,” The Junior Perry shouted. 

“Musashi said that once a man faces death at the point of a sword, that
his understanding increases drastically. I've faced death at sword 
point—have you?” 

The Bill Perry drew a Samurai type sword from its scabbard. 

“I don't have a sword,” Bill Elder shouted back. 

“The other Bill Perry did. Fetch it, and let's settle this like men. We
both have our seconds.” 

“Alright.” 

Bill retrieved the other Bill's sword. It was a hand and a half
sword—sometimes called a “Bastard” sword. If he won, then he and Tarda 
could disappear into the South. By the time that they located him 
again, he'd have accumulated enough unique experiences that he wouldn't 
be nearly so easy for his alter egos to predict. 

If he died—well, it was always a good day to die. He'd died twice
before. 

This would be good Zen. He would never be the same after this. 

************************************************************************
********** 


Chapter Thirteen 

Bill carried the Bastard Sword in his strong left hand. He had inherited
Bill Perry's contrarian tendency to do many things left-handed despite 
being naturally right-handed. He'd put a lot of effort into building 
World-Class strength into his “Sword, Axe and Knife Arm”. 

Southpaw advantage wouldn't really work against Bill Perry. (Though he
noticed that his client was holding his Sword in his right hand.) 

That was the thing. There was nothing in his resume' to give him an
edge. There was no clever trick or technique in his repertoire that 
Bill Perry hadn't seen—and practiced. Nothing—there was nothing to grab 
onto to assure him that he was special. 

This Bill Perry looked to be about six-four and weighed maybe
two-twenty. Bill was about three-eighths of an inch over six feet. He 
was a very heavy boned man and was in good fighting trim at 
two-seventy. Years in the bush had dropped his weight to a 
rib-revealing two hundred forty-five though. 

That might very well be his edge. He'd spent years at over four hundred
pounds. Maybe the zombie body has a strong latent tendency toward 
morbid obesity. Quite possibly the muddled Bill Perry memories were 
reliving their Sumo years. Whatever—he was shorter and heavier, and 
probably stronger. Better yet, he could relate to the Sumo training in 
a way that the always-lean client never could. 

Once again Bill quieted the speculation running wildly through his
brain. Cowards theorized with the idea of surviving firmly in mind. As 
long as he thought of the imminent duel as something to transcend and 
survive, he wasn't in Zen mind. 

Anticipate nothing. Expect only what happens. Put away thoughts of
victory and defeat. There was no reason to prefer life to death. 
Regardless of what happened, the only way that he could lose would be 
to show cowardice. Any outcome that featured him facing his destiny 
unafraid was a victory—regardless of who remained standing at the 
end... 

Bill saluted his client by raising his Sword until the hilt guard was
parallel with his brow line, his palm facing in. 

“I am no one. I came from nowhere. I have no goals and no agendas. My
life is a random drunkard's walk that can only end in my returning to 
the black chaos that gave me birth. 

“Strike me down, if you're able. You will have accomplished NOTHING,”
Bill told his client. 

“After I take your head, I will achieve promotion; a large bonus and the
satisfaction of watching you die,” His alter ego said. 

Bill was too far into the zone to exult—even a little bit—that his
client was that far out of the zone. Either way was fine with Bill. 

The instant that the client stepped into range, Bill attacked with a
blinding series of Western style lunges. The client was rocked back on 
his heels and Bill didn't give him pause to regain his balance. 

Bill's client could do nothing but parry, while constantly giving
ground. The attack couldn't be continued indefinitely though. After a 
dozen full-powered lunges, Bill was a bit out of breath. More 
important, his Sword arm had accumulated just enough lactic acid to 
make it a wee-bit heavy and slow. 

The client used his Katana like a Classical Saber. He did a beat-thrust
against Bill's blade. Then he brought the razor-sharp Katana around in 
a vicious backhand slash at Bill's abdomen. 

Bill Perry knew the trick—he just wasn't anticipating Bill Elder using
it right then and there. 

Bill's Sword was way too far out of line to parry the attack. So he drew
the long-bladed Bowie from it's specially designed speed scabbard, and 
blocked the slash with it. He captured the Katana's blade momentarily, 
with the Bowie's upswept back quillon. 

While the client's Sword was momentarily entangled, he brought the edge
of the Broadsword down sharply across the client's right wrist. The 
Katana and the right hand that held it, both dropped unceremoniously to 
the ground—although each of the objects made an audible thump. 

Bill backpedaled fiercely. He'd heard of Vikings using the “Fountain of
Tyr”—aiming the fountain of blood from a fresh-cut stump into a 
client's face to momentarily blind them. If you had to go, might as 
well take someone with you... 

Five very fast heartbeats later, the fountain had slacked off
considerably. The client wasn't in position to snatch up the Katana and 
it was apparent that he had no other long blade available. 

“Cripples are easy to defeat,” Bill quoted an old Sensei—knowing that
the other Bill would recognize the source. “Do you want to concede? We 
need to get that bleeding stopped if you want to live. I hear that 
they're doing remarkable things with prosthetics nowadays—with 
regeneration too...” 

“I yield,” the client said. 

Bill hadn't bothered to claim the Broadsword's sheath. He stuck the big
Sword point-first into the forest soil—though it pained him to do so. 
He sheathed his Bowie, and was walking up on the man to bandage his 
stump. 

Bill realized that the man was drawing a small pistol with his left
hand. He sidestepped while drawing his 1911A1 right-handed, knowing 
he'd probably be shot regardless. 

A shot rang out, and the man's head exploded. Bill whirled around to
find Steve lowering his Savage-Steven's bolt action. Tarda hesitated 
with her rifle at half-mount, unsure whether she should aim at Steve or 
the now departed client. 

“I don't know about you, but that strikes me as cheating,” Steve said. 

“Steve, you chucklehead, what are you up to?” Bill demanded. 

“They asked me to help find you. They struck me as the type people with
self-esteem issues. People like that generally don't take rejection 
good spiritedly. I promised to help the dickweeds find you. I didn't 
promise to be on their side when they caught up to you.” 

“You could easily gotten yourself killed in the crossfire,” Bill said. 

“Would it matter? You taught me that it's always a good day to die,”
Steve said. 

“But if Bill had happened to shoot you in the ambush, he'd always
believe that you sold him out,” Tarda said. 

“The truth is the truth. It remains the truth whether Bill Elder is
aware of certain facts, or not. Once again, if I act with honour, why 
do I care what Bill thinks of my actions?” 

“Cool. Steve, meet my new student Tarda. She's more of a graduate
student nowadays,” Bill said. 

“Bill, once we get far enough from this cluster-bump to set up camp—can
you fix us all one of your big meals?” 

Bill glanced at Tarda. 

“Don't see why not,” he replied. 

“There's something that I need to discuss with you.” 

*********** *********************************** ************** 

“Bill, I'm kinda like you,” Steve began. 

Bill raised his eyebrows as high as they would go momentarily. Then he
waited for more exposition. 

“I'm a very different person now, than I was before the treatment. Whole
blocks of my old life are warehoused in out-of-the-way memory 
locations. They aren't exactly ‘lost'. They are real hard to dig 
up—though once I touch on a ‘hidden' topic; it's extensively 
cross-referenced to other blocks of—not really ‘repressed'—shall we 
say, ‘Inactive' memories.” 

“Cool. Take some acid, and call me when you're fully integrated,” Bill
joked. 

“Yeah, well one of my old-and-all-but-forgotten skills—I used to be a
World-class hacker. I still am when I put my head to it. 

“Course back then, I had to wear diapers. I'd get so wrapped-up in my
hacks, that I wouldn't notice that I'd wet—or even messed myself.” 

“How charming,” Bill opined. 

“Be serious Bill! They sent me, the two Bill Perries and the Smurf
Rangers, through several weeks of bonding and orientation. I managed to 
do some serious hacking into the government files,” Steve said. 

“Do all these plagues—Nouveau Alzheimer's; Super ‘Berk; etc.;
etc.—doesn't it all seem a bit contrived to you?” 

“Don't know man. Everything seems out of kilter and contrived to me.
That's part of doing the Rip Van Winkle thingy,” Bill answered. 

“Let me tell you, it isn't an accident. It's part of a conspiracy,”
Steve stated. 

“Well, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get
you. You do realize that you are paranoid?” 

“Listen Bill, they're fine-tuning the NA. In a decade, there won't be
any people older than fifty. And the numbers will start tapering down a 
decade before that. Do you know what that will do to demographics?” 

“Not without access to some charts. I'd estimate that if you chopped
everyone off at fifty years old, the population should go down about 
twenty percent...give or take,” Bill said. 

“Okay, that cuts out everyone retirement age. It's cold, but there goes
one of the least productive segments of the population. 

“People over fifty tend to have more accumulated wisdom and perspective.
They also control a disproportionate amount of the middle-class 
wealth—‘cause if you're middle-class, it takes a few decades to 
accumulate it.” 

“Okay, that gives you a population that's a good bit more productive per
capita and also, noticeably easier to con. What's the rest of it?” Bill 
asked. 

“They have preventative vaccinations and treatments, and in many cases,
outright cures. They won't be affected by the plagues. They plan to 
reduce the human population to just over a billion—a workforce fifty 
and under, with no disabled. That should be sustainable almost forever. 


“Meantime they have treatments that will allow them to live three or
four hundred years—eventually longer. They're experimenting with 
genetic enhancements to make them smarter and longer-lived, while 
making the working class a bit duller—but far more docile,” 

“Well protein for them. What can anyone do?” Bill asked. 

“Not much. Hitler talked about a one thousand year Reich. These folks
are well on their way to setting up a fifty-thousand year Reich—and 
it's practically a done deal—the plagues are already loose—and evolving 
just as predicted,” Steve said. 

Bill sat thinking about what Steve had just told him. He reminded
himself that thought of good or evil, right or wrong or success or 
failures were all the delusions of a sick mind. A wise man acted solely 
for action, without regard for consequences. 

Neither his Christian God, nor the inexhaustible void suggested a course
of action though. 

He was tempted to walk into the nearest government building with a
flame-thrower—or perhaps to go on a long spree of long-range snipping. 
Neither course of action grabbed his whimsy though. He glumly rooted in 
his pack for some of the Scotch he kept for especially dark days. 

“They are going to get the population down. It's far too late to prevent
that. NA will knock twenty-five or thirty years off the life 
expectancy. They have used guinea pigs like us to perfect their 
longevity and their genetic engineering tricks. 

“Venereal diseases will make unsanctioned sex so risky, that those who
refuse to go along with the eugenics program will be dead or sterile in 
a generation or two. 

“Most of the people are already so institutionalized that if you raid
the refugee camps and open the doors, they won't even leave,” Steve 
concluded, while staring steadfastly at the canteen cup full of Scotch 
that Bill had given him. 

Bill got tickled. He started laughing. Eventually he laughed so hard
that he fell backward off the log that he was sitting on, and continue 
to lie on his back, laughing uproariously. 

Steve was wondering if Bill was drunk. He countered the thought with the
idea that Bill was a big man, and a five-ounce shot of liquor hadn't 
hit him that hard. He thought maybe Bill had taken some Morphine—or 
Demerol—but he also noted that Bill had carefully set his glass where 
it wouldn't be spilled, before he'd completely given himself over to 
his odd hilarity. 

“Steve, my man, did you ever read ‘The Molecule Men'?” Bill asked
without getting up. 

“No,” Steve answered. 

Bill picked himself off the ground and dusted the pine needles off his
clothes. He emptied the remainder of his drink and poured himself 
another, slightly smaller one. 

“The story is kinda far-fetched. Aliens invade the Earth. They're huge.
Compared to them, a human is the size of a piss-ant. 

“Somehow the aliens forget about the space faring race they once
conquered. They live in huge houses and people live as stone-age vermin 
within the walls. 

“Humans had been working on a weapon for generations. It turns out to be
a bust. For a while they're devastated. It looks like the situation is 
hopeless.” 

Bill paused for effect. 

“So what did they decide to do?” Tarda asked. 

“They decided to stow away on every spaceship that they possibly
could—much the same way that Norway Rats and German Cockroaches have 
followed mankind everywhere. 

“Someday they would develop a weapon—in a century or a millennium or an
eon. When they did, they would have multiplied their forces a 
trillion-fold—more. 

“We don't have a weapon to strike back at the Smurfs right now but we
can survive. We can procreate. We can build up our numbers—though not 
quite as ambitiously as the Molecule Men.” 

Bill sat thinking of his new strategy for a good while. 

“We can largely work within the framework of the existing Rice-Burner
Motorcycle clubs, some of the saner militias and some of the indigenous 
hillbillies. 

“We'll need to get a hold of some of the Smurf's lightning-bug glow
juices—stop diseases, Slow aging, maintain parity with any genetic 
enhancements that they come up with. 

“It is a grand and glorious enterprise: starting a World-wide invisible,
underground nation of guerilla freedom fighters. 

“We'll start making plans tomorrow. This will be good Zen...” 

“Now do you see what you've gotten started,” Tarda complained to Steve. 

************************************************************************
*************** 


Chapter Fourteen 

Harold rose about ten o'clock in the morning. Whatever other faults that
the Leaders could be charged with, they expected no more than a 
reasonable day's work from each Laborer—and they fed their charges 
well. 

There were always a few empty cottages among the married Laborer's
quarters and as a Master Chief Stable Hand, Harold could have had one 
of the small cabins assigned to him. Each cabin had a small kitchen, 
and the married couples, along with their children, usually took their 
meals apart—though there was no rule prohibiting them from eating at 
the main mess hall if they wanted to avoid cooking for a day, or even 
indefinitely. 

Harold hadn't been chosen to marry. He preferred to sleep in a converted
tack-room to be closer to his charges should his services be required. 
And he had no desire to cook for himself. 

He wandered over to the main mess hall for a late morning breakfast. He
selected a half-dozen pancakes with maple syrup, several small links of 
sausage along with about as many thick slices of jowl bacon. 

He grabbed a couple of peaches and an apple. He got himself both a cup
of very strong coffee to help wake him and a big glass of rich whole 
milk to wash everything down with. 

If he had been a Field Hand, he might have made himself several
sandwiches to take into the field with him. Of course, if he were a 
Field Hand he'd long since have been out in the fields. 

The Field Hands started at first light. They worked hard, but they got
breaks and no one begrudged them their snacks. They took a relatively 
late dinner, brought to them into the fields, and when they came in for 
supper, their day's work was done. 

The Leaders had researched the subject. Men tended to become over-worked
and far more susceptible to debilitating disorders and sicknesses, if 
they were given much more than fifty or sixty hours of hard manual 
labor per week. 

On the other hand, men of borderline intelligence grew rowdy if they
weren't occupied with something for at least thirty hours per week. 
Work on the plantations was rather seasonal, but averaged over a year's 
time; the Laborers worked about forty hours per week. 

(More intelligent workers could have used the extra leisure time for
constructive pursuits like hunting, fishing, reading or hobbies—but 
they were just as likely as not, to use the idle time to ferment 
revolt.) 

Harold had snacks in the stable and he was free to come back to the mess
hall whenever he chose, so there was little point in preparing 
“take-away.” 

A Stable Hand was more than a mere groom, but generally less than a
Veterinarian. As a Master Chief Stable Hand, Harold knew as much or 
more than any Veterinarian—though a Veterinarian would, by definition, 
have been a member of the Leader caste. 

Harold was unlikely to ever butt heads with a Veterinarian over
treatment for a sick or injured horse. He'd only seen a Vet a couple 
times in his life. However, in the unlikely event that he ever did, he 
had little doubt whose suggestions would prevail. Good horses were 
expensive, and Harold was as good at his job as anyone got. 

One reason that the Stable Hand's day started rather late was that most
of the draft animals would be out in the fields. There were horses in 
the stable though—extra draft horses, convalescing sick or injured 
horses and riding horses that weren't being ridden at the moment. 

Harold was mainly a Horse specialist, but he was perfectly capable of
treating a whole host of other animals—or even his fellow Laborers for 
minor complaints. As a supervisor, he put in more hours than any of the 
lower Ratings, but he mostly watched while others sweated—plus he could 
distract himself in any number of ways when the work was going 
smoothly—from shooting the breeze with this one or that, whittling or 
reading a book. 

He did take care of a number of the Boss' prize riding horses
himself—feeding them, grooming them—even taking them out for rides to 
make sure they were properly exercised. Not only was it a labor of 
love. It kept him from being too bored—or worse yet, going soft—and it 
was excellent job security. Boss put a lot of stock into his fine 
riding horses. 

When he saw his cousin and best friend, Jared walking up, he thought
perhaps that one of the Boss' granddaughter's dogs had gotten sick 
again. The Boss doted on his granddaughters. They in turn, were very 
attached to the Walker Hound they'd raised. And truth be told, when the 
chips were down, Harold was the best Veterinarian in Southern 
Indiana—whether he had a fancy degree, or not. 

“Just came to shoot the breeze,” Jared said. 

Harold waited silently for more. He hadn't been close enough to Jared
for more than a casual shouted greeting, and a raised hand in passing, 
for several weeks. 

When they'd come of age at thirteen, Harold hadn't been selected as a
potential breeder—thus condemning him to a lifetime of bachelorhood. 
Jared had not only been selected as a breeder, he'd been selected as a 
house servant. 

Harold understood that Jared was a sort of Personal Secretary for the
Boss—part butler, part data entry and retrieval, part confidant. 

For some reason, Jared had never taken advantage of his breeding status
to marry. Harold had often mildly wondered if Jared might be gay. That 
didn't matter though. Jared was a friend. He wouldn't approve of him 
being a deviant, but on the other hand, it wouldn't strike him from 
Harold's list of friends either. A friend was a friend—with all their 
faults—until they unambiguously disavowed you, or until one of you 
died. 

“How old are you Harold? Thirty-eight?” Jared began. 

“You should know. I was born three days before you. We always celebrated
our birthdays on the same weekend,” Harold offered. 

“Yes I know. I'm trying to make a point. What are the days of man?” 

“Once the days of man were three-score and ten. Now a Laborer's days are
two-score and ten; but a Leader's days are seven-score and ten,” Harold 
recited. 

Do the Leaders truly live so long?” Harold asked after the schoolhouse
catechism answer. 

“Actually, their average life expectancy is closer to one eighty than
one fifty nowadays—and they're working to lengthen it all the time. But 
finish the catechism...” Jared Said. 

“But a man is fortunate if he reaches two score and five before the
darkness claims him,” Harold finished. 

“How does that grab you Harold? You've worked your way to the top of
your profession. Leaders bring their horses from all over Southern 
Indiana and North Western Kentucky for you to heal and mend. 

“ You're a Master—but you've got about seven years at most. You'll
almost certainly be slipping up, and put on restricted duty the last 
three to four years—Master Chief only by courtesy.” 

“What can I say? I'd like to live longer—maybe even to the full fifty,
with my mind intact. As long as we're phantasizing, hell I'd like to 
have the old three-score and ten. But what can be done? That's simply 
the way life is,” Harold asked. 

“That isn't simply happenstance. The Leaders—or their forefathers—set it
up that way, over several centuries ago,” Jared stated calmly, but with 
a certain emphasis. 

“No Jared, you're getting it wrong. Don't you remember what they taught
us in school? God chose the Leaders and their descendants to be our 
caretakers—our shepherds, as it were...” 

“The lessons you learn in school are lies. God didn't have a thing to do
with it. It was all man's doing. If they didn't vaccinate all their 
children when they were young, they would start going senile in their 
early forties too—just like us. 

“Their longer life spans are the result of genetic engineering, and
certain treatments,” Jared continued. “Trust me, I work in the Big 
House. I know things.” 

Harold had to absorb all that for a moment. For the first time in his
life, he felt cheated by events beyond his control. 

“Even if all that is true, why tell me? What can be done?” 

“Have you ever heard of the Underground? Bill Perry? Bill Elder? The
Yakuza?” Jared asked. 

“No. Never heard of any of them,” Harold responded. 

“If I could put you in touch with some people who live hidden in the
Boondocks, people who can give you a cure for your impending 
senility—albeit at a certain price—and give you a life span that a 
Leader would envy—assuming that you don't meet a violent end—which is 
all too likely—would you be interested? Would you be willing to give up 
what you have here—for a shot at life, and more importantly, freedom?” 

To his credit, Harold didn't answer immediately, but took the time to
mull the question a bit. 

“Don't answer me now. Think about it for three days. If you decide to go
through with it, come see me in the big house after dark. You know the 
small cellar entrance, in line with the woodshed? Come there and knock 
SO”: Jared demonstrated a simple tapping rhythm. 

********* ************************************ ********** 

Harold was a certified hunter—the Leaders enjoyed fresh venison, and
other wild meat occasionally. And while many of the Leaders enjoyed 
hunting, they didn't always have the time. 

The Leaders had a firm hold on their situation, and little if any fear
of an uprising. So it wasn't that remarkable that Harold had a double 
barrel twenty-eight gauge. The shotgun was good for small game and 
loaded with the brass shells that had a single fifty-five caliber round 
ball over a stiff charge of powder, backed by three 00 Buckshot, the 
Gun was good for deer or black bear inside fifty yards. 

Harold had screw-in rifled inserts for the double barrel, that
lengthened its accurate range by at least half—but there was seldom 
time to screw them in against targets of opportunity. 

He also had a bolt action .22 and a .357 Single Action Revolver. The .22
was for small game. The .357 was supposed to be more a badge of office 
when he went on a big hunt with the Bosses, than anything else. 

Bosses wore Double Action Revolvers in the field—and generally a Lever
Action .30-30, if they were after big game. The Bosses' Bosses didn't 
like the idea of even Bosses having Semi-Auto weapons—even those 
plainly designed as hunting arms—so one seldom saw Semi-Autos afield, 
though that didn't apply to shotguns as much. 

Higher Ratings like Harold could own and carry a Single Action. It could
only be safely carried with five chambers loaded, and it had to be 
thumb-cocked for each shot. As a practical matter, it was still a 
deadly weapon—but in the status and caste conscious Leader's eyes, it 
was a nice step-down to reinforce class distinctions. 

Young Boss David—(Though now in his early fifties, he had lived longer
than Harold's maximum life expectancy—but he was still two generations 
away from running the Plantation) had come across the writings of Elmer 
Keith somewhere. He'd grooved on the idea of handgun hunting. He'd 
loaned Harold some of his books, and encouraged him to be a rival 
shooter and handgun hunter. So Harold knew quite a bit more than even 
the average Rating did about handgun use. 

What Harold couldn't come across very easily, was a large number of
rounds of ammo. Of course if he'd started some time ago, he could have 
put back a little at a time, with little fear of discovery. Going to 
the Armory and asking for several thousand rounds—or even several 
hundred—would raise a few eyebrows. 

He did go and ask for a five hundred and fifty-five round brick of high
speed .22LRs, one hundred rounds of .357 Lead Semi-Wadcutter Hollow 
Points, Two dozen 28 Gauge buck and ball loads, a dozen of the 
nickel-plated buffered BB shot in the 3 ¼” Shells, along with three 
dozen of the 2 ¾” #6s and four dozen of the 2 ¾” # 7s. 

That shouldn't arouse much comment. It was about enough for a good
practice session, or two, and a hunting trip to follow. With less than 
a million people in what had once been Indiana and half or more of them 
living in the small cities, there was little need for hunting seasons. 

People went when the urge struck them, assuming that they could get time
off from work. As a senior Rating, Harold could take off a few days 
almost anytime he pleased. 

Besides, he told himself, he had about all the ammunition that he could
conveniently carry... 

************** ***************************** ************ 

Harold went to the small cellar door and knocked just as Jared had
instructed him. Jared met him without any undue delay. 

“Come with me,” he said without preamble, turning away, and leading
Harold up a hidden stairwell. 

Harold followed him. He began to wonder if he'd done the right thing by
coming unarmed. It was quite conceivable that Jared might betray him. 
After all, Jared had worked many years in the big house. His 
motivations were largely opaque. 

As Harold saw it, he had little to lose. If there was folk hiding in the
forest, with the means to stop his brain starting to devour itself 
shortly after his fortieth birthday, well and good. If not, Jared's 
assertions had ruined any pleasure and satisfaction that he might have 
taken in his duties over the next few months. Striking out on his own, 
and alone, to inevitably lapse into mindless senility in a very few 
years was just as futile. 

No, if Jared was leading him to his doom, so be it. 

When Jared led him into a small hidden room, and he saw Young Boss David
sitting behind a small desk, his hair stood on end. So it was a trap 
after all. For the barest instant, he wished that he'd brought his 
.357. But it passed. Jared's words had rung true—whether he was a Judas 
or not. He'd permanently taken away purpose Harold might have felt in 
life. 

He didn't really mind dying. Taking the Young Boss, who he'd always
counted as a friend—despite their differences in station, wouldn't have 
made dying any sweeter. 

In fact, he could have carried his Revolver. Then he could have—quite
possibly—have killed the Young Boss. But the Young Boss had no more 
created this reality than Harold had, and was no more to blame. 

Harold had loved this man. David's life—from this moment on—would be
gift of friendship from Harold to one he'd once looked upon as a 
mentor. That would be a bond of friendship that neither time, nor Young 
David ordering Harold's execution could ever erase. 

************************************************************************
**************** 


Chapter Fifteen 

Young Boss David saw the look of pure horror on Harold's face, and he
hastened to hold up a hand placatingly. 

“Peace, I'm here to help with your escape—not to turn you in,” David
said. 

Harold's World had been rocked a couple of times already. He wasn't
quite able to assimilate it all at once so he sat on one of the chairs 
in the small room, and amused himself by listening to his frantically 
beating heart gradually return to normal. 

“Harold, we've always been close. We've shot together. We've ridden
together. We've gone on long hunting and fishing trips together. Have 
you never guessed why?” 

Harold shook his head in total bewilderment. He had never questioned his
relationship with Young Boss David. It simply was. 

“I'm your father Harold,” David said. 

“That isn't possible,” Harold managed to protest—albeit weakly. 

“Why not? They teach you in school that we're two separate races and not
cross-fertile but I assure you that we are. It is just one more 
instance of them lying to you.” 

“But even if a Leader could impregnate a Laborer...” Harold began. 

“They teach you in school, that women are filthy nasty creatures, and
that if a man has sex with one without some elaborate cleansing 
procedures, that he'll almost certainly contact a venereal disease—a 
disease that is almost incurable in men and will leave him sterile 
within a fortnight. That's the rap, isn't it?” 

Harold nodded mutely. 

“There is a certain element of truth in that. Almost all Laborer women
are carriers of a disease that will quickly infect and sterilize a 
man—any man. We engineered the disease, so we wouldn't have too much 
unplanned breeding—interferes with our Eugenics program, don't you 
know? 

“Only the last few generations we've pretty much gotten away from
planned Eugenics. We've found that it simply isn't necessary to insure 
control.” 

David paused to pour a large portion of Bourbon into glass and handed it
to Harold. 

“Drink up! You look like you need something to ease the shock. By the
way, that's why you weren't allowed to marry. You're far too 
intelligent. That is one of the elements of our slave breeding program 
that we still adhere to—eliminate the top fifteen percent intelligence 
wise...” 

“Slaves!?!” Harold exploded. 

All his life, he'd been taught to carefully avoid the term “Slave” or
“Slavery”. 

“You can call a turnip an ‘apple' if you will. That doesn't change the
taste of it. It is still a turnip. You and the others are still 
slaves,” David said. 

After that had a few moments to soak in, and Harold had finished his
drink—much faster than he ordinarily would have—with plenty of coaxing 
from David and Jared—David finally continued. 

“It is a myth that it takes all kinds of lengthy treatments to cure a
woman—like they put them through before they marry. A simple shot of an 
anti-viral agent will cure it. I assure you that all the house serving 
girls are cured and triple tested before they assume their duties. 

“Having sex with the help is considered déclassé; but it is bound to
happen occasionally...” 

David poured all of them another drink, and then continued. 

“I was only fourteen years old, but I truly loved your mother. She was
nineteen. She died a couple years later, miscarrying her second child. 
I sent you to be raised by your aunt, but I resolved to give you every 
advantage.” 

“You're my father? Then I shouldn't suffer from early senility,” Harold
hypothesized. 

“Sorry. There's a vaccine, but it won't work without the proper gene
sequence—and unfortunately, you didn't inherit that from me. If you 
had, we could have snuck you in as a Leader. Believe me, I had your 
genes carefully sequenced,” David said. 

“Well thanks. That's mighty big of you,” Harold said bitterly. 

“Harold, it was a madman's game, altering gene sequences that we didn't
fully comprehend and turning custom plagues loose on the World. 

“I'll give you an example. Leaders discourage extramarital sex, even as
Laborers do—but it is somewhat more common, perhaps since the 
consequences are generally less dire. 

“However, if a Leader woman is caught fornicating with a Laborer man,
they are both put to death. Yet a Leader woman did catch the sterility 
virus from a male Laborer. She didn't bother to have it treated—though 
she could have done so under amnesty. 

“She didn't bother to tell me—though it would have only been simple
human decency. She gave it to me. Even though I promptly sought 
treatment, the virus had mutated into a new, non-treatable form. They 
haven't found a cure for it, even unto this day. 

“Worse, although I wanted to publicly denounce her, and have her stoned,
our families came to an accommodation—to eliminate scandal. 

“Scandal! What is scandal, compared to the futility of shooting blanks
for the rest of my life?” David raged. 

“I thought that you claimed to love my mother,” Harold said. 

“I did. But your mother had been gone for four years when I met that
slut. I never claimed to be a saint—or even particularly good. I have 
all sorts of warts and faults—but I am trying to do right by you. I 
love you,” Young Boss David said. 

“Okay, that's a lot to absorb at one time—but I can mostly dig it so
far.” 

“Harold, I want to give you my .357. My father gave it to me, before he
was killed in a hunting accident. It's a five-inch Model 27 Smith and 
Wesson. It is a grand Gun. The handling should be close to your 4-¾ 
inch Single Action. 

“I'll give you a quick lesson how to shoot Double Action. You'll have to
do some dry-firing to completely master it. 

“But let me tell you what my father always said about thumb-cocking a
Double Action revolver: 

‘Son, thumb-cocking a Double Action revolver is nothing to be ashamed
of—provided that you only do it in private, wash your hands thoroughly 
afterward and never discuss the practice in the presence of ladies or 
impressionable young folk.' 

“I have couple other Guns for you. This is a 2 ½ inch Smith and Wesson
Model 19 .357; it's what you call a ‘hideout'. And this is a Lever 
Action Marlin .357 that you can take apart into two pieces. 

“I also want you to ‘steal' my best three riding horses when you leave
tonight—and anything else that isn't nailed down, if you think that it 
will help you.” 

The rest of Young Boss David's talk was routes, signs and counter signs.
Harold hadn't even known that there was a resistance—or even that there 
was anything to resist, until a few days before. Consequently he wasn't 
nearly as surprised as he might have been, that a Leader like young 
Boss David could be a high-ranking member of the underground. It was 
all new to him. 

Twenty minutes later, as Harold stood to leave, David offered him his
hand. Harold ignored the proffered hand. He swept David into a tight 
embrace. 

“I love you father. It pains me to leave you.” 

He did his best to hurry and leave, because he knew the proud man
wouldn't want Harold to witness his tears. 

************ ************************************* *********** 

Harold figured that with Boss David's blessing, that while there was no
time to shilly-shally around, there was no particular need to slip and 
skulk around either. He roused the Master Chief Quartermaster out of a 
sound sleep, to tell him that he was taking a few of the teenaged 
Leaders into the bush for several weeks, and that he had a grocery 
list. The list included bacon, beans, salt, sugar, flour and an 
improbable amount of coffee. 

The Master Chief Quartermaster never thought to doubt Harold's word.
Harold was a Master Chief himself, an A-one woodsman and quite capable 
of leading such an expedition. The Quartermaster's main concern was to 
fill the order quickly, so he could get back to bed that much sooner. 

He didn't even complain too much, when Harold added an expensive
selection of spices, a couple five-pound blocks of hard baker's 
chocolate, and a couple of the big half-gallon bottles full of 
twelve-year-old scotch. 

With three horses, Harold could have taken a lot more gear and grub.
Truth was, he didn't really need more. 			He was either going to hook 
up with his allies fairly quickly, and they'd have all the supplies 
that he needed—or he had less than a seven-year life expectancy. He 
could stretch his supplies to last over a year. He had more than enough 
ammo and gear to live fairly well in the woods for the next six years 
after that. 

His Aunt had always told him that sometimes it is the better part of
wisdom to quit eating before you got sick—even if that left you open to 
charges of “Hoggishness”. 

He hated to be hoggish and leave good gear behind—but it was better to
be thought hoggish than to let himself be overburdened through greed. 

Young Boss David—his father—he reminded himself with wonder, had told
him to take anything he wanted. Thus emboldened, he saddled two of the 
horses. That way he'd have an extra saddle, if he lost one. He fitted 
the third horse out as a packhorse. He'd rotate the loads every couple 
days, so no horse worked harder—and was thus more likely to give out, 
than the others. 

He stopped by the kennel, and got two of his favorite hunting dogs. Then
noticing that the rifle and shotgun scabbards were both empty on his 
spare horse; he roused the Armorer out of bed, and demanded a .30-30, 
ammo and another Double Barreled 28 Gauge. Now he had a spare 
centerfire rifle and shotgun too. 

It was about 4:00 am as Harold finally left the plantation. He was glad
that no one was around to see the tears run down his face as he left 
the only home that he'd ever known. He'd never considered leaving. He'd 
never heard of anyone running away—much less taking beaucoup valuable 
gear and saddle stock with him. 

His father—he stopped to roll that word around on his mind's tongue a
bit more—had assured him that there would be little, if any, effort to 
recapture him. Then in a week or two, the story would make the rounds 
that Harold had drown or ran up against a mean black bear sow with cubs 
or had a horse fall on him and break his neck—or something. 

A few of the savvy Laborers—which Harold realized now that he had never
been—might put two and two together. Most of them would take the report 
at face value. Folks nowadays were remarkably credulous. 

*********** ******************************** ************ 

They didn't teach Laborers escape and evasion techniques. Nonetheless,
Harold knew his way around the woods. He was also very well read, by 
Laborer standards. 

There were still cities. Rumor had it that Chicago—just outside of
Indiana—had over seven hundred thousand people. But Harold had never 
been to Chicago, or even Indianapolis or Louisville. 

He had very little interest in reading about the lives of the folks who
had lived in boxes of glass and stainless steel before the 
plagues—whether the stories were fiction or biographical. It scarcely 
mattered to Harold. All the stories of city life seemed stilted and 
surreal. 

Harold had grooved on stories of hunters and warriors though—Cowboys,
Indians, Vikings, Frontiersmen and Explorers. So Harold had an 
intelligent and well-read woodsman's ideas of how to hide and be 
inconspicuous. 

He avoided open spaces when he could. He avoided silhouetting himself
against the skyline. He was careful where he set-up his camp—and more 
careful how he set his fire. He covered every sign of his having been 
somewhere as well as he could, before he moved on. 

Whenever he hunted, he always limited himself to one shot—either passing
up shots he wasn't sure of—or far less often, simply writing off as 
lost, game that ran away after being shot—even when a perfect 
opportunity for a follow-up shot had presented itself. 

He often circled around to watch his back trail to see if anyone was
following him. 

Living in the bush fulltime, along with the constant need for vigilance,
sharpened both Harold's skills and his powers of observation. Harold 
had never been a “People Person”—spending far more of his attention on 
ideas and activities than he did thinking of gossip. Nonetheless, 
Harold had never been anywhere near this alone for anywhere near this 
long. 

As the days turned into weeks, Harold started to change. The solitude
was a part of it. Being in the woods fulltime was part of the 
experience too. Having had most of his comfortable illusions about life 
shattered by Jared and Young Boss David contributed. Reading—and 
pondering-- the only book that he'd brought—a leather-bound King James 
Bible—that contributed to the change too. 

And although he'd known before, now the thought that he was living under
an immanent death sentence was never out of his conscious for long. 

So it happened that when he finally caught up to the Yakuza that his
father had sent him in search of, that he'd already become much more a 
Warrior than he'd been the day before Jared had dropped a bombshell in 
his lap. 

Of course the Yakuza had training methods that could have sharpened
almost anyone's focus and awareness. Harold hadn't eliminated the 
need—he'd simply prepared himself to benefit from his upcoming training 
that much more... 

************************************************************************
************* 


Chapter Sixteen 

The dojo was underground. The Yakuza had built the vast room in the
shape of an extra-large Quonset hut—a “D” shaped cross section with the 
flat of the “D” corresponding to the floor, and the highest part of the 
ceiling thirty-five feet overhead. 

The Sensei was an old man—who was nonetheless thickly muscled. He had
thick white hair that reached below his waist and he wore several bead 
necklaces around his neck—including one with big round Mammoth Ivory 
beads and Kodiak bear claws. He sometimes paused to remove the beads 
before he skirmished. 

Unlike most of the students, who wore white gis, the old man's gi was
red. Some of the students called him “Inuyasha”—but never to the old 
man's face. 

But it had been the same advanced students who'd gifted him the red gi.
With the hair and the beads, it seemed a shame for Sensei not to have a 
flowing red gi. 

The Green belted judoka had no idea who “Inuyasha” was. He dimly
gathered that he was an ancient cartoon character. It didn't occur to 
him to wonder about it. Nor did he wonder what Sensei's actual name 
was. 

He was far too busy worrying about his studies. Three hours of Judo
every morning. At night—depending on the season of the year, they 
studied Wrestling, Boxing, Kung Fu and Karate. 

Judo would serve them well if their client was well clothed. In summer,
when a client might very well be half-naked, or wearing only a T-shirt, 
the Wrestling practice would prepare them to deal with grappling 
against bare sweaty arms. 

There were classes in Kendo, Western Style Fencing, Knife Fighting, The
Modern Technique of The Pistol—as taught by the great Sensei Jeff 
Cooper, many centuries ago. 

There were also classes in lock picking, gunsmithing, computer hacking,
and electronics. They learned anatomy and drawing and the psychology of 
clients and client wanna-bees. They even took time out to teach 
tracking, woodcraft, horsemanship and motorcycle riding. 

The Senseis often said,” Don't tell me that you understand how this
joint, or coupling or linkage works, and then tell me that you can't 
draw it from memory. That is obviously a contradiction.” 

The red-clad Sensei had told them that in Japan they didn't have colored
belts. One was a black belt or he was a white belt—although they did 
recognize the different grades. However, the Red Sensei felt the 
colored belts were a useful innovation. 

It had taken the judoka well over a year to earn a yellow belt and
almost another year to move up to green. He'd been a green belt for 
about three months now and he was in for the long haul. 
Traditionally—at least in the Yakuza school of Judo—the step from green 
belt to the first level of brown was the biggest, most demanding and 
took the longest. 

Lately it seemed Sensei was picking on him. He tried to persevere but
his resentment was building up. Sensei wasn't being even remotely fair. 
He was also overly free with slaps to the face. 

A slap across the face always sent the judoka into a berserker that he
had to control. He'd almost lost his temper several times. 

Sensei didn't slap most of his students. Only a few were singled out for
this special treatment. The judoka did not appreciate being in the 
special group at all. He'd often thought about discussing his feelings 
with Sensei, but some vague misgiving always held him back. 

SLAP! 

“You call that a break-fall? Go stand in the corner and practice your
falls,” Sensei scolded him. 

“I have had just about enough of you—you old SOB. If you strike me
again, you and me are going to go at it for real,” The green belt 
raged. 

“I'll be happy to quit slapping you—if you can answer a couple simple
questions. Who is this red clad old man who torments you?” Sensei 
taunted. 

The judoka was about to solve that surprisingly complex Koan—or
riddle—when Sensei threw his mind into total vapor lock. 

“And who are YOU?” 

His mind tumbled through a jumble of psychedelic and kaleidoscopic
images. 

“You are Bill Perry. No you can't be Bill Perry. I'm Bill Perry—no
wait—you're Bill Perry, and I'm Bill Elder—no but you're Bill Elder...” 


He was down on his knees without realizing he'd fallen. It wasn't a
gesture of either worship or supplication. His balance had simply 
failed. He fell back to a seated position. 

“I am Harold—Master Chief Stableman, and the son of Boss David. You told
me that allowing foreign memories to be implanted in my brain was part 
of the treatment to prevent senility. You also told me that my own 
personality would be submerged for a while, but that the chances for 
its eventual reemergence were excellent. Good Lord, I've been in a 
fugue for over two years...” 

“Take the rest of the day off Harold. Take a week or two. When you come
back, tell the supply sergeant to fix you up with a brown belt. With 
Bill Perry and my Martial arts training memories available to your 
conscious mind, you'll be a black belt in no time,” Bill told him. 

*************** **************************** ***************** 

“Here,” the old man said, handing Harold a necklace made of Mammoth
Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws. 

“Try to take care of these. We issue a set—and a couple of spares—to
each new Bill Elder copy. They're a badge of office—of sorts. Those 
Mammoth beads are damn hard to come by—or the tusks to make them out of 
are. We've considered going to Elephant or Walrus Ivory but we're 
traditionalists.” 

“You are Kogi. For some reason, my Bill Elder memories are much harder
to access than the Bill Perry memories—but I recognize you,” Harold 
said. 

“Bill Perry was dead—so his memories had a sort of completeness to them.
We took Bill Elder's memories seventy-five years ago—including the Bill 
Perry sub-routine. Thing is, Bill wasn't dead yet. He's teaching Judo 
right now. He also censored a comparatively few of his memories. 

“Think about it. If we were recording your memories in seventy
years—would you want someone to remember having sex with your beloved? 
Anyway, the censored spots, and the fact that Bill's memories don't 
have a clear-cut terminus—well, they take a bit more practice to use.” 

“Why do I have to have Bill's memories anyway?” 

“We gave you several different kind of drugs. We drilled a small hole in
your head—and introduced a mixture of mutated human embryonic brain 
cells, and millions fascinating little microprocessors that start out 
mobile, and shop for the best place to plug themselves into the 
biological matrix. It puts a stop to the Noveau Alzheimer's but with 
out a big blast of loose data... 

“Well we don't know why, but having to try to cope with a whole
personality engram stimulates the embryonic cells and the 
nanoprocessors to settle down and tighten up their formation.” 

“So what role does you Boondockers play in the overall scheme of
things?” Harold asked. 

“There are many issues of temporary expediency but in short, we try to
survive and keep our numbers and technology high enough, that when the 
Leaders finally fade away completely, that the human race doesn't go 
the way of the dinosaurs and the dodo bird.” 

“I hate to break it to you and all—but the bosses ain't aimin' to pass
away anytime soon,” Harold opined. 

“The Leaders and the Laborers are both headed for inevitable extinction.
Between the rapidly mutating Noveau Alzheimer's, the sterility virus; 
and a few other bonehead moves...Well, we couldn't help them if we 
tried. 

“Thing is: they can't help but know we exist but we can't afford to
antagonize them too much. If they decided to, they could wreck the 
world's ecosystem with their damned genetically engineered viruses and 
bacteria. 

“They could rather easily do the same favor for plant and animal life
that they've already done for themselves—if we antagonize them—which is 
to say, doom them to eventual extinction.” 

“How do you know all this?” 

“We have much better computers and mathematicians and programmers than
they do. We run airtight simulations.” 

“What are the odds?” Harold asked. 

“At the moment, fairly hopeful. The Leaders won't recognize the
impossible nature of their problems for some time. Their numbers should 
slowly decline over the next couple millennia. We have room in the 
Boondocks to increase our numbers drastically. 

“So far, as the Leaders population has declined, they've looked at it as
a good thing—and they've done a good job of putting deserted areas back 
into a natural, sustainable state. 

“And we learn more all the time. It is hard to increase knowledge with
so few resources and personnel to devote to it. Human's probably 
couldn't...” 

Kogi saw the look on Harold's face. 

“That's right Harold. Even though we may have been born human, we're no
longer completely human here,” Kogi touched his forehead, “Or here.” He 
grabbed his crotch for emphasis. 

“We couldn't side-step all the viruses without altering a few gene
sequences. It's dangerous to fiddle with things that you don't fully 
understand. That's what got the Bosses tails in a wringer. We had no 
choice though. 

“You've had the change too. None of your children—should you have
any—will be subject to NA, Viral Sterility—or any human disease for 
that matter.” 

“So what can I contribute to this cyberpunk dog and pony show?” Harold
asked. 

“Finish training. There's long list of ill-considered projects we manage
to steer the Leaders away from—by making the cost too high. Sometimes 
we fail. People get killed. The work is important—if you want to sign 
on. 

“Go rest now, and take care of your beads. Wear them proudly—Sensei...” 

The End 


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