Armageddon, Inc Read online

  ARMAGEDDON, INC.

  BY

  LLOYD BIGGLE, JR

  EDITED BY

  KENNETH LLOYD BIGGLE

  COPYRIGHT 2012 BY

  KENNETH BIGGLE

  AND

  DONNA EMERSON

  Dr. Frederic Ramsey had lost so much weight that the stiff, chill autumn

  wind seemed likely to blow him away. The skin of his bald head stretched

  tautly over his skull and added to his cadaverous appearance. A passerby

  taken unawares might have mistaken him for a walking corpse. He wore a ragged sweat shirt so old that only a few letters survived of whatever sarcastic message it had once displayed. There were patches on the patches of his blue jeans. Somewhere along the way he had been generously spattered with mud.

  He carried a small suitcase and a battered satchel of the type that

  doctors had once called their "Black Bag."

  His surroundings looked as ruined as he did. Most buildings lacked

  roofs; many were missing walls. Where debris had crumbled into the street, a bulldozer had cleared a passage for motor traffic. Ramsey used it wherever the sidewalk was blocked. There was no danger because there was no motor traffic.

  The ruins were decades old, but the litter Ramsey encountered was recent, consisting mainly of discarded liquor bottles, many of them broken. The absence of fast-food throwaways was unmistakable evidence that no one was eating fast food--probably because no fast food establishment could operate profitably in that slum.

  A dog bounded through a hole in the side of an abandoned building and

  confronted him, growling savagely. It looked starved. Ramsey ignored it, and after watching him pass, the dog followed after him hopefully.

  A few humans were in sight, looking down on him from gaping holes that

  once had been windows. They stared at him briefly and then transferred their gazes elsewhere. Only the dog seemed interested in him. Ramsey paused briefly to watch a spy-plane pass overhead with a high-pitched whine. Then he walked on.

  As he approached an intersection, a beggar squatting on the crumbling

  sidewalk protectively moved the rusted tin can that served as a collection cup closer to him. Ramsey halted and stared down at him. The beggar cringed.

  Ramsey grinned insolently, fished some coins from his pocket, and tossed them into and around the can.

  The beggar, more startled than grateful, croaked, "Thanks."

  Ramsey moved on, taking long strides. He was wondering why a beggar

  would waste time on an intersection of streets lined with the rubble of

  bombed-out and boarded-up buildings. There seemed to be no traffic of any

  kind.

  A few entrepreneurs had found quarters for shops amidst the destruction.

  There was a food store, a liquor store (the only prosperous-looking

  establishment), a cafe, several shoddy hotels, and several more war-shattered buildings that simply displayed a sign, "Rooms." Far up ahead was the most unlikely sign of all--one that read, "Bank," with a second sign, "Post

  Office," that looked like an afterthought.

  On a map, the community was shown as a shaded area that read, "War

  damage." It was part of the Outland, and its people were called Outlanders--

  which any true Outlander had to consider an insult. Only human debris would reside in such a slum, and human debris was always Inland debris--the

  outcasts, the failures, and the misfits of a prosperous wartime society, not

  to mention criminals and degenerates, who had escaped across the border. The bank was for their use so pension and compensation checks could be cashed.

  Money, which had all but gone out of use in most Outland communities, was

  essential to these renegade Ins who now were called Outs. The bank gave them money for their checks; the small stores, unhealthy-looking cafes, windowless taverns, and lodging houses took it from them.

  The direction signal started up again, delivering incessant beeps to the

  receiver in one of Ramsey's ears. It sounded for ten minutes every hour, and

  this time the beeps had become painfully loud. Ramsey lengthened his stride.

  He had only ten minutes to obtain a fix on it.

  At a gap between buildings, Ramsey paused. Above a cemented walkway, someone had erected a sign: "ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE, CHECK YOUR MORALS AT THE DOOR." On the wall was a smaller sign, "Norm's Place," and an arrow.

  Ramsey entered, wincing as the beeps became still louder.

  Behind the boarded-up buildings was a broad alley. Beyond it were more

  boarded-up buildings that fronted on the next street. The alley was

  surprisingly clean and free from clutter. There were several worn and rickety card tables, each of them surrounded by four equally rickety chairs occupied by four rickety and worn men intent on games of cards. None of them looked up. A woman sat on one of the building's loading platforms, knitting. She watched Ramsey while continuing to knit.

  Ramsey looked about him. Then he called to the woman, "Where is Norm's Place?"

  The woman pointed at steps leading down to a basement. Ramsey called,

  "Thanks," and descended the steps. At the bottom, he knocked on the closed door.

  "Just walk in," the woman called.

  Ramsey thanked her again and opened the door. He was very close,

  now. The beeps screamed at him. Then they cut off abruptly. The ten minutes were up.

  Two hanging kerosene lamps dimly outlined a large room. There were

  tables of all kinds scattered about in it with an assortment of mismatched

  chairs. Around the sides were overstuffed chairs and sofas that had needed

  upholstering for years. In several of them, elderly men or women were

  sleeping. At one side, a row of old tables formed a counter. Behind it,

  Ramsey glimpsed a battered ice box that certainly had not seen ice for years,

  an old kerosene cook stove, and a few improvised shelves loaded with odds and ends of food packages.

  A small man dressed in an old suit, complete with vest and necktie,

  stepped from behind the counter and came to meet Ramsey.

  "I'm Norm," he said. "Help you?"

  "I'm Doctor Frederic Ramsey. Does Dennis Foat live here?"

  The little man nodded.

  "He told me about this place," Ramsey said. "How is he?"

  "Bad shape," the little man said. "Dying, I think."

  Startled, Ramsey studied his face. It gave nothing away. The little man

  had been asked a question; he had answered it. It was not a matter that

  concerned him personally.

  "Dennis has never had much luck," Ramsey said. "I'm dying myself--as you

  probably noticed. I'm looking for a quiet place."

  The little man scrutinized him narrowly. "Cancer?"

  Ramsey nodded.

  "We haven't got any nursing care here. But as long as you can look after

  yourself--"

  "If I can enjoy my few good days and be left alone on the bad ones,

  that's all I ask."

  "We aren't a charity, either. You pick the accommodation you can afford.

  If you can't pay anything, a few places will let you flop for free, but that's

  the only thing they have to recommend them."

  "What do you charge for a bed?"

  "I got two dorms, one for men and one for women. Dorm beds are twenty-five a night or one twenty-five a week. I've got a couple of semi-private rooms, four beds in a room. That's by the week only, one fifty. And I've got a few private rooms, also by the week, two hundred. Those rates include breakfast: coffe
e, toast, oatmeal."

  "I'm still able to earn a little money," Ramsey said. "I'm a doctor.

  Is there a place I can set up a clinic?"

  "Sure. But I'll warn you--any patients you attract here aren't going to

  make you rich. They're long on medical problems and short on cash. But set

  up anywhere you like. We need a doctor. Use your room, or a corner of the

  lounge. If you want more light, set it up outside. The weather's been decent all week."

  "Show me a private room," Ramsey said.

  The bare room the little man showed Ramsey--one cot with a thin mattress, two blankets, a handmade chest secured by a large hasp and padlock--was the most inhospitable place he had ever seen, but he signed the register, "Frederic R. Ramsey, M.D," and paid a week's rent.

  Then he asked casually, "Is Dennis in?"

  "Haven't seen him this morning. I don't think he's been out of his room.

  He's in bad shape and spends most of his time in bed. I'll see."

  He turned toward a stairway, and Ramsey, uninvited, followed him. On the second floor, they followed an unlighted hallway--as far as Ramsey knew there was no electricity in Outland, and obviously Norm's Place didn't waste

  kerosene or candles in the daytime.

  At the end of the hall, Norm knocked gently. Then he knocked again,

  louder. There was no response, no sound from within.

  "If he's that sick, he needs a doctor," Ramsey said and rained blows on

  the door.

  There was still no response.

  He tried the door and found it locked. "I'm breaking the door in,"

  Ramsey announced. "Give me a hand." He knew he couldn't manage it alone.

  Norm said indignantly, "Look--you'll pay--"

  "Of course," Ramsey rasped. "Let's get the door open."

  The two of them hit the door together. Ramsey was weak; Norm was

  reluctant. Nothing much happened. On the second try there was a

  splintering of wood and the door flew open.

  Foat, a young man not yet thirty, lay on the flimsy bed. His clothing,

  which was far better than that of any other resident Ramsey had seen, was

  stained with huge blotches of blood. His face was a network of cuts and

  bruises with lines of dried blood everywhere. His scalp had been sliced open

  and fractured by a powerful blow. One arm, which lay at an odd angle, was

  obviously broken.

  He was dead, of course.

  Ramsey said dully, "When did it happen?"

  "Night before last," Norm said. "He and his buddy--fellow named Mill

  Rees--got in a fight at the tavern down the street. Not a smart thing to do--

  some of those characters are mean. Both of them were carried back here."

  "Where's Rees?" Ramsey asked.

  "He was dead when they brought him in. Foat was alive, so we put him to

  bed."

  "Is that all? He was in that condition, and you put him to bed?"

  "This ain't no nursing home. I mopped up some of the blood. Beyond

  that, no one knew how to help him."

  "What did you do with Rees's body?"

  "What we always do with a body. Yesterday, some of the boys took it to

  the dump."

  "Don't you know deaths have to be reported to the proper authority? You

  can get into serious trouble that way."

  "Doc, there ain't no proper authority here. No one cares who dies, or

  how, or what's done with him."

  "This time, someone cares," Ramsey said. "An ambulance will come for

  Foat and also for Rees's body. I want you to post a watch out by the street

  to flag it down when it gets here, and I want you to find the men who took

  Rees's body to the dump so they can show the ambulance crew where he is. I also want to talk with someone who saw the fight so I can find out exactly

  what happened."

  Norm hesitated. "I dunno. I don't think any of those men--"

  "Find them," Ramsey said, "or you'll learn how severe authority can be,

  even in this forgotten hole."

  Norm left. Ramsey closed the shattered door and sat down to contemplate Foat's body. He shifted it slightly, removed a small case with a LCD screen from a rear pocket, and transferred it to his own pocket. Then he removed one sleeve of the light sweater Foat had been wearing and examined his left arm.

  He took a scalpel from his black bag and incised a lump. An almond-shaped

  object--the instrument that had been emitting the direction signal--had been

  implanted in his arm. Ramsey found the control and turned it to "S," meaning "Steady." The beeps--inaudible except to a receiver like the one Ramsey wore in his ear--began again. He winced--they were even louder than before--and removed the receiver.

  From his suitcase, Ramsey took a small box, opened it, pressed a button,

  and announced, "Ramsey."

  "Go ahead," the box rasped.

  "Foat is dead--killed in a brawl of some kind. His body is here at

  Norm's. Rees is dead, and his body was taken to the dump, Norm says. I'm

  trying to find someone who can show us where it is and identify it. Send an

  ambulance and crew with escort. I'll leave the signal on, and I'll have

  someone on the road to intercept. Foat doesn't seem to have been robbed. He still had his Electroencephalograph. I'll go through his things while I'm

  waiting."

  "Right. Expect company."

  Ramsey went through Foat's pockets and found nothing of interest. There was no desk or bureau in the room, nothing with drawers. Ramsey prowled about looking for a hiding place. Finally he pushed Foat's body aside and searched the bedding. Under the pillow he found a small notebook.

  It's scribbles were unintelligible to him until he reached the last page

  Foat had used. On it, he read, "Melna Rees, Fronville."

  He used his communicator again. "Rees may have come from a place called Fronville. Find out where it is."

  Having done what he could, he sat down to wait for his "company." When

  he set out on this silly assignment, the last thing he expected was to

  suddenly find himself a soldier in the front line of a war that had gone on

  for generations, but it abruptly dawned on him that this is what had happened.

  ******

  The war had lasted through most of the lifetime of Ramsey's father and

  all of his own. His father, a doctor like himself, could remember when it was

  a shooting war, with bombs and bullets. His father had spent the early years

  of his career patching the wounded, repairing the maimed, and performing

  autopsies on the dead. Now it was a war of spy-planes and germ warfare scares with the world still divided into two contending conglomerates, East and West, one an alliance and the other a coalition, and the public of both groups had long since forgotten which was which. They were Easts and Wests, with governments that called themselves democracies and claimed to be fighting for the freedom of all of Earth's peoples.

  Decades before, some diplomatic genius had persuaded the combatants that it was in their mutual interest to stop shooting and bombing each other and attempting to turn the planet into a radioactive cinder and let the diplomats have a fair try at achieving a settlement. A complicated schedule of inspections by spy-planes and been worked out so each side could be assured that the other wasn't preparing more war while it talked peace. Inspections were to be continued as long as the peace talks lasted; but because neither side would yield a millimeter, the discussions had lasted for decades and probably would go on forever. The belligerents had long since been destroyed by bankruptcy, but they still thought they were maneuvering for advantage.