Грэм Мастертон - Famine

‘Will you explain this to me, in words that I can understand?’ asked Ed. He knew now that it was urgent for him to find out what was going on; although he couldn’t help himself from glancing anxiously down Franklin Avenue towards the lurid gasoline fires that now lit up the outline of the Hughes Supermarket ‘It’s very simple,’ said Della. She raised the muzzle of her rifle slightly. Not more than a half-inch, but enough for Ed to notice.

‘If it’s simple, then we should be able to follow it,’ put in Shearson. ‘I’d love to know why you consider my overweight carcass to be so extraordinarily valuable.’

‘Years ago,’ said Della slowly, as if she were speaking from a remembered script, ‘years ago – when this famine was being planned – it was decided by my superiors that as soon as the President had surrendered, a new President would immediately have to be installed in his place. But, he couldn’t be a Russian. To have a Russian President, all of a sudden, would be too much of a shock for the American people, and they would react violently. You are a violent people, as the frequent riots in your cities have shown us. Apart from that, a Russian President would find the nation too difficult to handle with any degree of success. Yours is a complex, unstable, hedonistic society. Very hard for a Russian to understand.’

She paused. Shearson had cupped his hand to his ear as if he were hard of hearing. Peter Kaiser’s face was stiff as a meringue.

‘We went to considerable trouble to pick as our future Gauleiter of America an established politician who would be able to carry off the burden of Presidential duties without feeling overwhelmed by them; a man whose face was already familiar to the American public; a reassuring, fatherly figure. And yet a man whose personal morals were so flawed that he would easily be encouraged by the gift of instant Presidency and great financial wealth to assist us in taking over the administration of your country as painlessly and as quickly as possible.’

Shearson Jones’ lips were opening and closing wordlessly.

Della turned to him, and smiled, and said, ‘Of course. Senator Jones, our first choice for Gauleiter was you. And that is why I consider your overweight carcass so valuable, and that is why I have been cossetting you and protecting you all the way from Kansas to the Pacific ocean.’

‘So,’ breathed Ed, ‘we were right about Your Spread From The Sky. And I was right about you. You’re not FBI. You’re a Soviet agent.’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Della nodded.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ puffed Shearson, scathingly. ‘You’re a Red, my dear. An economy-size Mata Hari. There’s no “manner of speaking” about it.’

‘But what about the Blight Crisis Appeal?’ asked Ed. ‘If you wanted Shearson for a puppet President, why did you bother to steal all those incriminating papers?’

‘Because they’re incriminating,’ smiled Della. ‘We like to keep our friends in line; and if Shearson ever misbehaved himself, we could quite easily oust him from power and imprison him on the evidence of his past swindles. How could the rest of the world complain about that? The man’s an obvious, proven criminal. Apart from that, we needed to confiscate his personal millions, so that he would no longer have the means to escape us, nor to bribe anybody to help him.’

‘And why are you telling us this confidential and privileged information?’ asked Peter Kaiser. ‘Shouldn’t you have waited until Russian troops were actually wetting their boots on Malibu Beach?’

‘I’m telling you because there’s no other way I could have explained that there’s been a change of plan. We’re not going to attempt to rescue Ed’s wife and daughter; and we’re not going to attempt to lay our hands on that stock of food. Look at it – there’s a full-scale riot going on down there. All the people in that supermarket will be dead in an hour, and all the food will be looted. It’s not worth the risk.’

‘Risk?’ asked Peter Kaiser. ‘What risk?’

‘The risk of losing the next President of the latest addition to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. That’s what risk.’

Ed gripped the steering-wheel with sweaty hands. He could try to wrench the pump-gun out of Della’s hands, but he knew that it was hopeless. She would have blown his face off before he had even turned around. He stared at the leaping dames at the intersection of Highland and Franklin, and his eyes watered with hopelessness, with tiredness, and with glare.

Shearson said, ‘I’m a man of some influence, you know, my dear Della. A figure of respect. I’m quite sure I could go some way towards quelling that mob of lunatics.’

‘They’d rip you apart,’ said Della. ‘They’re no better than wild animals.’

‘Well, if you say so,’ shrugged Shearson, drawing Ed’s Colt .45 out of his voluminous coat and pointing it at the back of Della’s head.

Ed stared at Della in total horror. She caught the look on his face, frowned, and said, ‘Ed, what’s the—’

Shearson fired, and Della’s face seemed to expand in front of Ed’s eyes like an over-inflated carnival balloon. Then there was blood and glass everywhere, and Della jerked forward in her seat. Ed’s ears rang with the noise of the shot.

‘Well,’ said Shearson, handing the .45 to Ed. ‘Severe times merit severe measures. I may be morally flawed, but I’m still a patriot. You’re next to her, Mr Hardesty. Do you mind kicking her out of the door?’

Ed opened the driver’s door, climbed down, and walked around the hood. He opened the passenger door, and lifted Della carefully down to the sidewalk.

Shearson said, ‘It’s more than she deserved,’ as Ed climbed up behind the steering-wheel again.

Ed said, ‘I made love to her once, that’s all. Now, what are we going to do?’

‘Well, we’re going to have to be quick, and we’re going to have to be bold,’ said Shearson, leaning forward in his seat ‘We’re pretty reasonably armed, compared with most of that mob. Shotguns against clubs. So my suggestion is that we form up these wagons of ours into some kind of a flying wedge – drive straight through to the supermarket doors – and keep the looters at bay while we let the people inside get out and while we organise any able-bodied men to load up whatever food they can.’

Peter Kaiser ran his hand through his hair. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, senator, that seems incredibly risky. There have to be seven or eight hundred people there. Maybe more.’

‘I know it’s risky,’ said Shearson, with exaggerated patience. ‘But consider the alternatives. Either we spend the next six months scrabbling for food like the rest of these poor wretches, or we load ourselves up with enough sustenance to keep ourselves independent and self-sufficient. And solvent , apart from anything else. Remember you can buy yourself a woman with a can of meat.’

Ed said, ‘I’ll have to go ask the rest of them. And the women and children will have to stay behind here someplace.’

Shearson twisted himself around in his seat. ‘There’s a hotel back there. That looks likely. Less chance of disturbing any irate and gun-happy householders. Now, I’d get moving if I were you. The way that supermarket’s burning, it doesn’t look like we’ve got ourselves a whole lot of time.’

It took Ed five minutes to persuade two out of the remaining three farmworkers in his convoy to join in a rescue attempt. One of them – Roy Guraing – had always had a soft spot for Season, and so he was pleased to volunteer. Nat Petersen was a little more reluctant, but he was single, and physically strong, and a good shot with a scatter-gun, and eventually Ed managed to talk him around. Jerry Stone wouldn’t go for anything. He had his wife and children with him, and in any case he thought Ed was crazy.