Amerika (41 page)

Rose walked toward the door. “You do that, Helen.” Alan Drummond stood at the doorway watching. He felt only scorn as their panic mounted. “I know Peter Bradford,” he said. “He’s a decent man. When he finds out what’s going on here . .

Rose walked up to Alan. “I have nothing to do with that unit. I’ve never even been inside it. Nobody can blame me—”

A secretary interrupted him and spoke to Alan. “Doctor, they’re coming up the driveway.”

“There’s really no need for me to be here,” Rose said, and walked out the door.

Helen tried to fight the panic inside her head. She wasn’t sure what she should do.

Alan watched her closely. “You’re not going to win this one, Helen. Not now, not here,” he said quietly. The truth of his words fed his confidence. “It’s turning,” he continued. “Do you realize this is the first time I’ve seen someone like you lose in ten years ... the first time . .

Helen walked to the door and stood in front of Alan. “It’s not over. We’ve done breakthrough work here. Breakthrough!”

Alan smiled slowly. “We’ll see.”

She ran out the door; Alan remained in the doorway. A huge sigh of relief escaped from him, then he laughed, permitting himself the luxury of his victory.

Amanda was both frightened and determined. Ever since she had heard that Devin was here, perhaps being drugged and brainwashed, she had known she must come. And yet, as she approached the steps to the hospital, she knew she was afraid of what she might find.

General Fred Sittman was at her side, and two armed guardsmen flanked them: people of their importance could not move without protection. Amanda wasn’t sure if she was relieved or frightened by her armed guards.

They were flanked too by Jeffrey and his camera crew, burly men carrying bulky cameras, restless, relentless men who barged in wherever they pleased. Even in the New America, the spirit of “Sixty Minutes” still lived.

Amanda saw the little white-coated knot of officialdom that loomed ahead: a nervous man in bifocals, a tough-looking woman, and a couple of unhappy security guards.

And off to the side, a black man, a familiar face, smiling, but one that stumped her for a moment, in this unexpected setting.

She stopped and stared at him, and watched his smile widen with delight. “The first lady of Heartland, I presume,” he said.

“Alan? Alan Drummond? Is it really you?”

He held out his arms and she flew to him. They embraced—as the hospital staff grew nervous—and she whispered, “I’ve come to get Devin.”

“We got him out early this morning; he’s okay.”

Amanda felt dizzy with relief; she held on to Alan for support. “Thank God,” she said. After a moment, she began to smile. “Well, I guess that ends the tour,” she said.

“Amanda,” Alan said quietly. “There’s more.” They had stepped a few feet aside. General Sittman and the others were watching this encounter with curiosity and, in some cases, anger. Jeffrey was scribbling notes and his crew was filming silently.

“What do you mean, more?” she asked.

“The psychiatric unit, where Devin was. I. . . t
hink
you’ll need to prepare yourself for what’s here.”

He didn’t tell her about Justin. He wanted her to go into that evil place because it was right, not because she knew one of the victims. Besides, he feared that if she knew what lay ahead, she might turn back.

Amanda summoned her courage a second time. “All right, Alan, if you say so.” She turned to the administrator. “You’re Mr. Rose?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bradford, and I want to welcome you to People’s Acceptance. We believe we’re one of the—” “Mr. Rose, I want to tour that unit,” she said, and pointed to the door that said
psychiatric unit—keep out!

“No, you can’t go there,” declared Nurse Quint. “It’s classified~-off limits.”

Amanda turned to Fred Sittman. “General?” “Folks, the lady can go where she pleases,” he said. Quint turned to the security guards. “Stop them!” Fred Sittman’s two guardsmen put their hands on their holsters, and three more guardsmen, armed with rifles, fanned out across the corridor.

The hospital security men stepped back. “I believe they have clearance,” one of them said.

With the national guard leading the way, and Jeffrey’s camera crew close behind, Amanda, Sittman, and Alan Drummond marched toward the forbidden unit. Rose, the hospital administrator, walked unhappily in their wake.

Alan led them into a dimly lit ward with a double row of beds packed close together. It took a few moments for Amanda’s eyes to adjust. She started uncertainly up the aisle, clutching Alan’s aim, then she cried out in horror as she saw the unconscious man on the bed nearest her, then the man next to him, and realized she was looking at two dozen men, with IV tubes in their arms, pale, shrunken creatures who seemed more dead than alive.

“My God!” she cried. “Alan, what . . . what is it?”

The camera crew switched on its lights; the glare illumined the gaunt faces of the patients but did not stir them from their trances.

Alan put his arm around Amanda. “This is where they start them off. When they first get here, they put them on various drugs, which prepare parts of the brain for conditioning: the films, the tapes, the individual therapy.”

The cameras were on Alan now as he softly explained the chamber of horrors.

Amanda walked over and looked into the subjects’ faces. They stared without focusing. She shrank suddenly from the horror of it. “We’ve got to stop this!” she cried. “How do you stop it?”

She ran to the nearest IV machine and twisted its knobs. “How does this work?” she demanded.

Rose, the administrator, suddenly confronted with fights and a camera, blinked back like an insect flushed from under a rock. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’ve never even been here before.”

“I’ll show you how to cut them off!” Fred Sittman was consumed in righteous anger. He ripped the lines from the nearest machine and sent it crashing to the floor. Then he crisscrossed the ward, tearing out lines, breaking bottles, knocking over IV machines. The cameras kept rolling and Amanda began to quietly sob, her head against Alan’s shoulder.

He led her to the door. “There’s more,” he said. “I’m sorry but there’s more you have to see.”

She dried her eyes and followed.

They walked along a narrow corridor with several small doors opening off it. Alan nodded to an attendant, who unlocked one of the doors. It, too, was dimly lit; at first they saw only a small, padded cell, then they saw the figure crouched in the "corner.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, before she even recognized the ravaged creature huddled in the shadows.

It was Justin, what remained of him. The tall, confident .boy she remembered astride his motorcycle now weighed barely a hundred pounds. His skin was ashen, his blond hair and ragged beard were streaked with gray. He was clad only in shorts, he looked tiny and withered. His eyes were open but empty as he huddled in the comer, his face to the wall, holding himself.

“Justin!” Amanda cried. She was frozen with fear and disgust for an instant, then she crossed the cell with quick, determined steps and knelt at the boy’s side. Slowly, she put out her arms, but it was like embracing a statue. He showed no sign of life or recognition. “My God, my God,” she whispered. She sat on the floor beside the boy, trying to get his attention, trying to embrace his stiff, ravaged body.

Alan knelt beside her, touched her shoulder, but she saw only Justin now, the broken body, the empty, fearful eyes. Gently but firmly she pulled him to her until his head was cradled against her breast.

“Ah, Justin,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

A people’s militia controlled Milford that day. More than fifty men and women occupied the jail and the courthouse square and guarded the roads into town. They were armed with the weapons seized at the jail, and with others that had miraculously appeared from a hundred hiding places. Even some dynamite had turned up, and been buried in strategic points around the square for possible use against an SSU invasion.

It was during the morning that Herb Lister burst onto the scene. “What are you people doing?” he demanded. “This is treason. This is insurrection; you can all be shot!”

Ward and Aiethea Milford had returned to their farm, and Ward’s fellow deputy, Cy Spraggins, commanded the irregulars. “I’ll kiss a pig if we ain’t got space in the jail,” he drawled.

“Well, then arrest that little prick,” another of the militiamen declared.

“You can’t arrest me,” Herb shrieked. “I’m the chairman of the Community Advisory Committee. I represent the PPP. I—”

As Cy advanced upon him, Herb turned tail and fled across the square, but Cy pursued, tackled him, and dragged him screaming off to jail.

The arrest of Herb Lister raised morale for a time, but the insurrectionists still waited anxiously, wondering what the SSU would do. They were well armed but how long could they hold out against its might? They expected at any moment to hear the clatter of helicopters or the rumble of armored cars.

Ward, Alethea, and various other exiles were collecting weapons that had lain hidden in various caches all over the town: some beneath the crushed structures of their former camp, some in old basements and attics. They had handguns, a couple of hunting rifles, and a small case of dynamite.

Over the hill a ways, Billy, Clayton, and Will stood outside the dugout, watching the activity.

“Don’t get too far from that trapdoor,” Will told Billy. “Don’t know whether they gave up or are just givin’ it a rest. With them helicopters, they suddenly appear and surprise hell out of you.” He patted the boy’s head and started back toward the farmhouse.

Billy watched him for a moment, then took off after him. “I’m sorry they burned the house, Grandpa,” he said, catching up with the old man.

Will stopped walking. “Wasn’t you. Guess it was more they didn’t like our attitude. Us Milfords have always had an attitude problem.” He put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and smiled into the familiar eyes. “You stayin’ safe is what’s important.”

“You too,” Billy said.

Will winked at his grandson and walked away. Billy watched a moment, then headed back to the dugout.

“I have to tell you, young man.” Clayton smiled. “I am out of stories, and if I have to go back there too many more times, you’re on your own.”

“Oh, don’t be such a crybaby.”

Clayton laughed, and soon Billy joined him as they started back down the dugout.

Will joined Dieter, Alethea, Betty, Ward, and a handful of Exiles as they sifted through the ruins of the farmhouse. Each one found different little treasures partially burned. Will was collecting the pictures of the family from the dining room. They were all damaged, but some were still worth keeping.

Everyone looked toward the sound of the ambulance pulling up the driveway. Nobody moved toward this strange, out-of-place vehicle. Two Exiles got out of the cab of the ambulance. Dieter recognized one of them as Rick. Rick saw Dieter and walked toward him, his hand extended.

“Dieter, what the hell happened?”

Dieter shook Rick’s hand. “You can guess. What are you doing?”

Rick smiled and looked at the Milfords, who by this time had moved toward the ambulance. He walked to the back of the vehicle, where the other Exile, Enos, had already opened one of the doors. Rick opened the other, and they reached inside the ambulance.

Devin pushed himself up on his elbow. “Let me try to . . . sit up,” he said refusing the assistance. “Don’t take me out on the stretcher.”

Enos hopped inside the ambulance and helped Devin sit up.

There was anxiety on all the Milfords’ faces. So much tragedy had left them wary of something like this. Alethea first caught sight of Devin bending out of the back of the ambulance, being helped by Enos to sit there.

She rushed to him. “Devin! My God . . .”

Devin grinned weakly as she rushed into his arms. “Hi, Ali.”

The others rushed around him, helping him to stand. Will stood back, watching. Devin was not certain what kind of reception his father might have for him.

“Hi, Dad . . .”

Will looked at his son and smiled. “Welcome home, son.”

He walked up to Devin and embraced him. The others stood close by watching this touching moment, one which had been so long awaited.

“Let’s get you inside.” Will held on to Devin’s right arm. As they moved slowly, Devin noticed the shell of the burned house.

“My God . . . the house.”

“I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you,” Alethea quipped. “Your old room isn’t quite ready.”

Devin felt incredibly weak and dizzy as he leaned into his father for support. “We’ll take you down to the cellar. It’s better than you’d expect.” He smiled at Devin and gave him a quick hug around his shoulders. “We’ll be rebuildin’ soon.”

The Milford meat-packing plant was a large two-story building, corrugated metal from top to bottom. The factory-window glass was webbed with wire, giving it the look of a state penitentiary. The walls were straight, the comers of the building sharp; it possessed an overall boxlike shape without character or architectural style. The loading docks were falling apart; it was almost impossible to think that they had ever been used. The place was like a deserted tree house, beaten, weathered, and uncared for.