John Adams - Wastelands 2

The farmer nodded without looking up. He shouted “Yaah!” and snapped the reins.

For a long moment the guard looked after the creaking wagon, chewing on a grass stem. Finally, he turned to his younger companion. “Jimmy, did I ever tell you about Portland? Sonny and I used to go there, before the war. They had this mayor, back when I was a kid, who used to pose for…”

They passed through the gate, out of Gordon’s hearing.

Under other circumstances Gordon might have pondered hours over what that one small conversation had revealed about the social structure of Oakridge and its environs. The farmer’s crop indebtedness, for instance—it was a classic early stage of share-kind serfdom. He had read about things like this in sophomore history tutorial, long ago and in another world. They were features of feudalism.

But right now Gordon had no time for philosophy or sociology. His emotions churned. Outrage over what had happened today was nothing next to his anger over the proposed use of the drugs he had found. When he thought of what that doctor in Wyoming could do with such medicines… why most of the substances wouldn’t even make these ignorant savages high!

Gordon was fed up. His bandaged right arm throbbed.

I’ll bet I could scale those walls without much trouble, find the storage hut, and reclaim what I found… along with some extra to make up for the insults, the pain, my broken bow .

The image wasn’t satisfying enough. Gordon embellished. He envisioned dropping in on the Mayor’s “party,” and wasting all the power-hungry bastards who were making a midget empire out of this corner of the dark age. He imagined acquiring power, power to do good… power to force these yokels to use the education of their younger days before the learned generation disappeared forever from the world.

Why , why is nobody anywhere taking responsibility for putting things right again? I’d help. I’d dedicate my life to such a leader.

But the big dreams all seem to be gone. All the good men—like Lieutenant Van and Drew Simms—died defending them. I must be the only one left who still believes in them.

Leaving was out of the question, of course. A combination of pride, obstinacy, and simple gonadal fury rooted him in his tracks. Here he would do battle, and that was that.

Maybe there’s an idealists’ militia, in Heaven or in Hell. I guess I’ll find out soon.

Fortunately, the war hormones left a little space for his forebrain to choose tactics. As the afternoon faded, he thought about what he was going to do.

Gordon stepped back into the shadows and a branch brushed by, dislodging his cap. He caught it before it fell to the ground, was about to put it back on, but then stopped abruptly and looked at it.

The burnished image of a horseman glinted back at him, a brass figure backed by a ribbon motto in Latin. Gordon watched shifting highlights in the shiny emblem, and slowly, he smiled.

It would be audacious—perhaps much more so than attempting the fence in the darkness. But the idea had a pleasing symmetry that appealed to Gordon. He was probably the last man alive who would choose a path of greater danger purely for aesthetic reasons, and he was glad. If the scheme failed, it would still be spectacular.

It required a brief foray into the ruins of old Oakridge—beyond the postwar village—to a structure certain to be among the least looted in town. He set the cap back on his head as he moved to take advantage of the remaining light.

An hour later, Gordon left the gutted buildings of the old town and stepped briskly along the pitted asphalt road, retracing his steps in the gathering dusk. Taking a long detour through the forest, he came at last to the road Sonny had used, south of the village wall. Now he approached boldly, guided by a solitary lantern hanging over the broad gate.

The guard was criminally lax. Gordon came within thirty feet unchallenged. He saw a shadowy sentry, standing on a parapet over near the far end of the palisade, but the idiot was looking the other way.

Gordon took a deep breath, put Abby’s whistle to his lips, and blew three hard blasts. The shrill screams pealed through the buildings and forest like the shriek of a stooping raptor. Hurried footsteps pounded along the parapet. Three men carrying shotguns and oil lanterns appeared above the gate and stared down at him in the gathering twilight.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I must speak with someone in authority,” Gordon hailed. “This is official business, and I demand entry to the town of Oakridge!”

That certainly put them off their routine. There was a long, stunned silence as the guards blinked, first at him and then at each other. Finally, one man hurried off while the first speaker cleared his throat. “Uh, come again? Are you feverish? Have you got the Sickness?”

Gordon shook his head. “I am not ill. I am tired and hungry. And angry over being shot at. But settling all that can wait until I have discharged my duty here.”

This time the chief guard’s voice cracked in blank perplexity. “Dis-discharged your… What the hell are you talking about, man?”

Hurried footsteps echoed on the parapet. Several more men arrived, followed by a number of children and women who began to string out to the left and right. Discipline, apparently, wasn’t well practiced in Oakridge. The local tyrant and his cronies had had things their way for a long time.

Gordon repeated himself. Slowly and firmly, giving it his best Polonius voice.

“I demand to speak with your superiors. You are trying my patience keeping me out here, and it will definitely go into my report. Now get somebody here with authority to open this gate!”

The crowd thickened until an unbroken forest of silhouettes topped the palisade. They stared down at Gordon as a group of figures appeared on the parapet to the right, carrying lanterns. The onlookers on that side made way for the newcomers.

“Look, loner,” the chief guard said, “you’re just asking for a bullet. We got no ‘official business’ with anyone outside this valley, haven’t since we broke relations with that Commie place down at Blakeville, years ago. You can bet your ass I’m not bothering the Mayor for some crazy…”

The man turned in surprise as the party of dignitaries reached the gate. “Mr. Mayor… I’m sorry about the ruckus, but…”

“I was nearby anyway. Heard the commotion. What’s going on here?”

The guard gestured. “We got a fellow out there babbling like nothing I’ve heard since the crazy times. He must be sick, or one of those loonies that always used to come through.”

“I’ll take care of this.”

In the growing darkness the new figure leaned over the parapet. “I’m the Mayor of Oakridge,” he announced. “We don’t believe in charity, here. But if you’re that fellow who found the goodies this afternoon, and graciously donated them to my boys, I’ll admit we owe you. I’ll have a nice hot meal lowered over the gate. And a blanket. You can sleep there by the road. Tomorrow, though, you gotta be gone. We don’t want no diseases here. And from what my guards tell me, you must be delirious.”

Gordon smiled. “Your generosity impresses me, Mr. Mayor. But I have come too far on official business to turn away now. First off, can you tell me if Oakridge has a working wireless or fiber optic facility?”

The silence brought on by his non sequitur was long and heavy. Gordon could imagine the Mayor’s puzzlement. At last, the bossman answered.

“We haven’t had a radio in ten years. Nothing’s worked since then. Why? What has that to do with anythi—”