John Adams - Wastelands - Stories of the Apocalipse

He says, "How about an epidemic of a new disease passed on by fleas? It hasn’t reached here yet." He says, "How about, way up in Reno, they found a cache of ammunition so they can clean up their old guns and use them again?"

I give him news about Clement to tell people. I’ll say that’s another reason Joe came to me first-to give me news of my brother. (I think I made up that news because I know my brother’s dead. Otherwise I’d not have mentioned anything about him. I’d keep on thinking he’s out in our mountains as one of the crazies, but I don’t think I ever really believed that. I just hoped.)

Once he takes my hand and squeezes it-says how grateful he is. I have to get up again, turn my back. I wash our few dishes, slowly. I’m so flustered I hardly know what his hand felt like. Strong and warm. I know that.

Lots of good things happen in those town meetings. We give each other our news. We have all kinds of helping committees. In some ways we take care of each other more than we did before the war. People used to bring in their deer and wild sheep and share the meat around, except there’s less and less wild game and more and more mountain lions. They’re eating all the game and we’re not good at killing lions. I’ll bet Joe would be, with his crossbow.

So I bring him to the meeting. Introduce him. They crowd around and ask questions about all their favourite spots, or places where they used to have relatives. He’s good at making stuff up. Makes me wonder, was he once an officer?

Or did he act?

I admire him more and more, and I can see all the women do, too. He could have any one of us. I’m worried he’ll get away from me and I’m the only one knows who he really is. Whoever gets him in the end will have to be careful.

He’s looking pretty good, too, horrible haircut and all. My brother’s blue farmer shirt sets off his brown skin. It’s too large for him, but that’s the usual.

The women have been out at the bird nets and had made a big batch of little-bird soup. I was glad they’d made that instead of the other.

There’s a Paiute woman who comes to our meetings and reports back to the reservation. She’s beautiful-more than beautiful, strange and striking. I should have known. At his first view of her you can see…both of them stare and then, quickly, stop looking at each other.

Later he sits drinking tea with several women including the Paiute. They all crowd around but I saw him push in so that he was next to her. The tables are small but now nine chairs are wedged in close around the one where he sits. I can’t see what’s going on, but I do see her shoulder is touching his. And their faces are so close I don’t see how they can see anything of each other.

I sneak away and run home. I wish I’d saved his smelly, falling-apart clothes. I wish I’d saved the dirty, tangled hair I cut off, but I burned that, too. I do find the old hat. That helps them to believe me. I bring the crossbow. It also helps that he tries to get away.

They hung Joe up in the depository. I told them not to tell me anything about it. I’d rather not know when we get around to using him.

Neal Barrett, Jr. is the author of more than 50 novels, including the post-apocalyptic novels Kelwin , Through Darkest America, Dawn’s Uncertain Light , and Prince of Christler-Coke . He’s published dozens of short stories, in venues such as F&SF, Galaxy, Amazing Stories, Omni, Asimov’s, and a number of anthologies. His work has been collected in Slightly Off-Center and Perpetuity Blues .

This story, which was a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, introduces readers to Ginny Sweethips and her traveling roadshow that makes its living selling sex, tacos, and dangerous drugs. Her companions are her driver and carnival barker Del, and Possum Dark who lives for the moments when he can spray lead across the land.

So, without further adieu, here she is, gents: Ginny Sweethips. Isn’t she all you ever dreamed of?

Del drove and Ginny sat.

“They’re taking their sweet time,” Ginny said, “damned if they’re not.”

“They’re itchy,” Del said. “Everyone’s itchy. Everyone’s looking to stay alive.”

“Huh!” Ginny showed disgust. “I sure don’t care for sittin’ out here in the sun. My price is going up by the minute. You wait and see if it doesn’t.”

“Don’t get greedy,” Del said.

Ginny curled her toes on the dash. Her legs felt warm in the sun. The stockade was a hundred yards off. Barbed wire looped above the walls. The sign over the gate read:

The refinery needed paint. It had likely been silver, but was now dull as pewter and black rust. Ginny leaned out the window and called to Possum Dark.

“What’s happening, friend? Those mothers dead in there or what?”

“Thinking,” Possum said. “Fixing to make a move. Considering what to do.” Possum Dark sat atop the van in a steno chair bolted to the roof. Circling the chair was a swivel-ring mount sporting fine twin-fifties black as grease. Possum had a death-view clean around. Keeping out the sun was a red Cinzano umbrella faded pink. Possum studied the stockade and watched heat distort the flats. He didn’t care for the effect. He was suspicious of things less than cut and dried. Apprehensive of illusions of every kind. He scratched his nose and curled his tail around his leg. The gate opened up and men started across the scrub. He teased them in his sights. He prayed they’d do something silly and grand.

Possum counted thirty-seven men. A few carried sidearms, openly or concealed. Possum spotted them all at once. He wasn’t too concerned. This seemed like an easygoing bunch, more intent on fun than fracas. Still, there was always the hope that he was wrong.

The men milled about. They wore patched denim and faded shirts. Possum made them nervous. Del countered that; his appearance set them at ease. The men looked at Del, poked each other and grinned. Del was scrawny and bald except for tufts around the ears. The dusty black coat was too big. His neck thrust out of his shirt like a newborn buzzard looking for meat. The men forgot Possum and gathered around, waiting to see what Del would do. Waiting for Del to get around to showing them what they’d come to see. The van was painted turtle-green. Gold Barnum type named the owner, and the selected vices for sale:

Del puttered about with this and that. He unhitched the wagon from the van and folded out a handy little stage. It didn’t take three minutes to set up, but he dragged it out to ten, then ten on top of that. The men started to whistle and clap their hands. Del looked alarmed. They liked that. He stumbled and they laughed.

“Hey, mister, you got a girl in there or not?” a man called out.

“Better be something here besides you,” another said.

“Gents,” Del said, raising his hands for quiet, “Ginny Sweethips herself will soon appear on this stage, and you’ll be more than glad you waited. Your every wish will be fulfilled, I promise you that. I’m bringing beauty to the wastelands, gents. Lust the way you like it, passion unrestrained. Sexual crimes you never dreamed!”

“Cut the talk, mister,” a man with peach-pit eyes shouted to Del. “Show us what you got.”

Others joined in, stomped their feet and whistled. Del knew he had them. Anger was what he wanted. Frustration and denial. Hatred waiting for sweet release. He waved them off, but they wouldn’t stop. He placed one hand on the door of the van—and brought them to silence at once.