Ransom 3

Just a fun bit of fluff I started years ago. For some reason, it seemed to be time to finish it.

+

This is the way the world ends,

This is the way the world ends,

This is the way the world ends,

Not with a bang but a whimper.

-T.S. Eliot,

The Hollow Men

.

It had started, most improbably, in Mecca.

It could have been anywhere, but Mecca it was.

Victims were not instantly turned into classic Hollywood's mindless shuffling zombies. Instead, the Bug - for so it came to be called - turned its victims into a reasonably good simulation of what urban mythology had termed 'rabid'. Symptoms included a general, searing anger and an unfocused, homicidal hostility.

Oh, and foaming at the mouth and death within a few days. Yeah, that too.

Victims did not just target other people. Virtually any movement would spark insane rage and an immediate attack. Indeed, few large mirrors or plate glass windows survived for long as victims shattered them in an attempt to kill their own reflection.

A victim's ferocity increased swiftly as the virus seething within their brains stoked white-hot aggression, but then dropped off steadily as the body itself started to break down. Towards the end, a victim would indeed appear as a shambling almost mindless near-corpse. The aggression didn't go away, just the victim's ability to move effectively.

And yes, it was incredibly contagious.

But,

But,

Mecca, that holy city...

The internet showed itself at its worst that week, with conspiracy theories growing exponentially. The Bug was Jehovah's revenge on Islam, sent by Him to save His own (posted by very brittle Christians, of course). The Bug was a Zionist plot to destroy the Faithful (equally brittle Muslims). The Bug was a CIA plot to take over the world's oil by killing off its present owners (idiots of all flavours). The Bug was a deliberate biowar strike by the New World Order. The Bug was Gaia's revenge on Her now-disowned parasitic humanity. The Bug...

No theory, no claim, no proposition was too silly to find supporters.

That the Haj had finished days before the Mecca index case appeared was almost certainly a coincidence. That an estimated million-and-a-half pilgrims had left Mecca to return home to over 100 countries could not however be denied. Nor could the fact that the Bug burst into full flower a week or so later in Muslim communities around the world. While destroying them (something usually overlooked by bigots and the tin foil hat crowd), it rapidly spread to their neighbours. Quarantines and countermeasures proved ineffective, too little, too late.

It was the Iranian government which had first openly accepted the Zionist Plot claim. Tehran was not prepared for a nuclear war, but, with the country falling to pieces around it, its Revolutionary Guard found a way to smuggle a carefully-hoarded ex-Soviet nuke into Tel Aviv. The last President of the Islamic Republic went on the air to announce his government's revenge before the mushroom cloud had had time to collapse. His defiant speech was interrupted by a frothing station cameraman tearing out the President's throat with his teeth. The station went off the air, 'temporarily' the screen announcement said. It never returned.

With plague sweeping the nation and the Israeli president and cabinet radioactive cinders, it should have surprised nobody that surviving Israeli generals found a way to circumvent complex presidential failsafe controls over that state's small but well-contrived nuclear arsenal. A spasm of launches targeted not only Tehran, but all surrounding states which

might

conceivably pose a post-plague threat to

Eretz Yisrael.

Warheads from those targeted nations were soon arching back on reciprocal flight paths.

Nobody knows whose warhead it was that detonated over Jerusalem. By then, few were in a position to do much of an analysis.

Any possibility that the carnage might be contained in the region died when an Israeli cruise missile coincidentally overflew first elements of the US Navy's 6th Fleet off the coast of Lebanon and then, a minute later, a shadowing Russian Navy flotilla. The latter, not detecting the missile until it was already over the US ships and with both forces at maximal alert, interpreted the missile as a pre-emptive US attack and, in accordance with its standing rules of engagement, spasm-launched its own weapons in reprisal. Word of the engagement received in capitals around the world only fed an already desperate situation. In the last

use-'em-or-lose-'em

miscalculation the species would ever make, the world spiralled into its third - and final - global conflict.

It could have been much worse, of course. Calmer heads, system failures and already-dead hands holding launch keys prevented the launching of enough ICBMs to plunge the world into a full-blown nuclear winter. Still, enough warheads went off to decapitate governments, shatter critical communication, transportation, food and power systems and isolate surviving populations. The launching of the less-spoken-of but omnipresent chemical, radiological and 'conventional' biological weapons didn't help matters.

With all of that evaporated any hope of finding a cure or vaccine for the Bug. By that time, some would have said it didn't really matter anyway.

Nor did the inevitable but foredoomed military campaigns by state armies, religious extremists and nationalist militias. While they solved nothing, achieved nothing, gained nothing, they proved remarkably effective at destroying what little else might otherwise have been left.

With most homes around the world having but a few days of food, survivors were soon forced to leave their shelter to forage and compete for sustenance. As supplies dwindled, each day an ever-increasing proportion lost out in that competition - and died.

Uncaring of events around it, like fog flowing over the scene of an earthquake, the Bug continued to spread.

The four horsemen found much trade that year.

+

Ransom paused before entering the gorge. Colorful, striated cliffs rose several hundred feet on either side, leaving a flat valley perhaps a quarter mile wide. A shallow stream bed, now quite dry, meandered through the canyon.

He could see a small cluster of buildings inside the defile. A faded Chevron sign leaned towards a rust-spotted pair of pumps in front of a rambling one-story building, obviously once some form of store or restaurant. Next door was a simple, six-unit motel, its parking lot deserted but for lazy tumbleweed. Across the road were the charred and blackened foundations of half a dozen small houses and what might have once been a church. Behind the store was a tall array of solar panels of some sort. A dozen still-turning three-bladed turbines took advantage of the constant wind funnelled through the pass. A trailer sign in front simply said, 'WaTER."

Looking carefully at the store through his binoculars, he could see that the spaces where plate glass windows had once provided light for its customers had been filled in with something, probably locally-made mud brick. Such conversions were hardly uncommon in the area.

Donnie stirred by his side. Without taking his eyes off the valley, Ransom reached down and scratched behind the big dog's ears. He could hear the dog yawn beside him.

Dogs had reinvented their relationship with humans. Or, rather, the two had reverted to their original arrangement. Small pets were no longer useful in any real sense and such breeds were practically-extinct garbage-hunters now. As hunting companions, sentinels, defence partners and working animals, larger dogs survived. Seemingly immune to the Bug, they also provided advance warning of potential threats. Instead of cave lions, the threat was generally another human, of course.

The man was no longer young, but still well shy of old. Any fat which had ever been on him had long since melted away and he could now best be described as 'stringy'. His hair was long and held behind his head in a rough grey ponytail tied with a scrap of thong. His full beard was untrimmed beyond having been periodically chopped down with a knife. In his world, barbers were extinct, scissors scarce and razor blades precious trade items.

He was dressed in mismatched scraps of clothing - ragged blue jeans, a sleeveless flannel shirt and a much-abused felt hat which might once have boasted of some second-cousin relationship to a Stetson. Its brim was torn on one side; a hawk feather was stuck in the hatband on the other. His worn boots matched, but wouldn't for much longer; the sole of one was held in place solely by multiple turns of salvaged power line. A ragged scrap of stained cloth made do for a bandana. A carefully-preserved pair of aviator sunglasses completed his outfit.

It had been a long walk since the last stream. His clothing was dust-covered, sun-bleached and stiff in places with dried perspiration. Tattered and mended, in another year or two it would clearly disintegrate beyond repair. He'd not yet learned to sew or tan hides and kept pushing those looming problems aside.

Ransom carried a large and much-mended pack; in the post-Bug world, it was 'raider or trader' and he respected himself too much to become the former. His trading stock filled most of the pack, leaving little enough space for personal items. A belt around his waist held a small hunting knife on one side and a long-barrelled revolver on the other. Convenient at hand, lashed to the pack, was a quiver of arrows. A heavy-bladed machete was sheathed on his pack.

One hand carried a salvaged recurve bow. While Ransom still was learning to use it with skill, it was silent and had the signal virtue that arrows could be reused, even manufactured if necessary. He'd discarded his rifle a year ago after firing off the last of his ammunition. He carried 11 carefully-hoarded rounds of ammunition for his pistol; when they were gone, that implement too would be cached until When and If....

The sound of a distant shot rolled gently to the man's ears, then another. Instinctively dropping lower and checking to ensure he could not be seen, Ransom began scanning the terrain systematically, looking for places of cover. It seemed logical, at least as an initial guess, to assume that somebody was shooting either from or at the buildings.

Eventually, his eyes were drawn to movement. Two figures could be seen behind a large boulder slightly above ground level, medium rifle-shot from the buildings. They were too far away for Ransom to make out details. Noting their location, he settled in patiently to check for others.

The glint of sunlight off glass - a telescopic sight? binoculars? - revealed another gunman several hundred yards past the first pair. Half an hour of further watching disclosed no others.

He turned and sat down in the sand with his back to the rock. He had no business getting involved with local affairs and the concept of law-and-order was as dead as dead could be. He rattled the last tablespoon of water in his canteen and frowned.

The sound of another shot reached him; the dog whined and laid its muzzle on his lap. In response, he closed his eyes, reached down and again scratched behind its ears.

A moment later, shrugging, he began to consider an approach route to the nearest pair.

.

For anybody but the most expert archer, the key to a successful bow shot is distance. Ransom took his time on his approach, even pausing to move pebbles from his path on occasion, carefully placing them to one side before taking another step. At last, he stood less than 20 yards from the first two, slightly above and behind them.

Looters, raiders, robbers, rats - call them what you will - have helped craft the fate of mankind whenever social systems have collapsed.

There's strength in numbers and, provided that a leader can keep his or her followers fed and happy, 'might makes right' has long been an effective survival strategy. Respected ruling dynasties around the world have been built on robber gang foundations. It works so long as there is some form of base economy to support it and it works until somebody stronger comes along.

Post-Bug, conflict was almost continual as rival bandit groups aggressively thinned each other out in an increasingly-desperate struggle for supremacy and survival.

A stable economic base had on the other hand never been established. Farmers were easy pickings and warehouses only held so much. The world was winding down.

Initially, looter groups tended to be formed around mutinous military units, demoralized police forces and long-standing criminal gangs, all of which had the initial advantage of existing power structures, weapons and resources. Ironically, for some reason these tended to be hardest hit by subsequent waves of disease. The Bug swatted them out of existence in mere months.

What remained now were mainly gangs formed after the worst of the Bug had passed. While some had initially styled themselves in Mad Max fashion, the obvious reality rapidly became apparent - clothing comprised mainly of leather jockstraps, feathers and aluminum kitchen colanders would rarely protect wearers from bad weather, let alone bullets or arrows. Soon enough, such cosplay theatrics were discarded. Nobody had the time for them in any case; staying alive took precedence.

Still, most bands tended to have one distinguishing feature. This lot apparently went for shaved heads and long, plaited queues. Asides from that, they were essentially dressed in the same scavenged style as Ransom. The two looked skinny, underfed. One was armed with a crossbow, the other a cheap hunting rifle. Several empty ammunition boxes lay at his feet. Ransom raised his eyebrows at the latter's willingness to expend irreplaceable ammunition.

The pair was careless, focused only on the buildings in front of them. Ransom watched the two passing a small cigarette back and forth. Cannabis had outlasted alcohol only in that it produced itself.

Shaking his head grimly, he shifted the bow and loosened the pistol on his belt, just to be sure, before taking aim at the one who seemed to be the more dangerous of the two.

The broadhead entered the raider's neck -

a foot too damned high!

Ransom thought in disgust even as the man died. Overcompensating, his second arrow took the man's partner in the stomach. His second victim gave a surprisingly low groan and dropped, writhing. Ransom dropped the bow and leapt down beside the wounded man. Pushing the rifle and the crossbow out of the way, he pulled the arrow out, tossed it aside to be reclaimed later and drew his knife.

+

The tricky part for any salesman ever has always been to get a toe in the door. When the door is barricaded against barbarians and outlaws by armed and nervous occupants, the job becomes more difficult. When that barricaded door is full of recently-formed bullet-holes, it takes a lot of courage to even knock on it.

Ransom waited an hour, time enough for nerves to settle a bit. He stashed his pack and weapons (including his bow, the crossbow and two newly-acquired rifles) behind a convenient rock and made his way under cover to about 75 yards in front of the building. One of the raiders had been wearing a grubby white t-shirt; Ransom tied it onto the end of a stick. He slowly raised it over the top of the boulder.

A shot rang out from the building, ricocheted off the boulder. It didn't hit the shirt, but it wasn't for lack of trying. He winced at the ugly sound of the bullet as it spun, whining away into the distance.

OK, 'slow' not working,

he thought. Careful to keep his hands under cover, he raised it again, waving it furiously back and forth. This time, there was no shot.

He continued to wave the flag for a moment, tossed it aside. Taking a deep breath, he stood up. From crude loopholes in the adobe walls, he could see the muzzles of at least three weapons aimed at him.

"I'm not with them!" he called. "I'm a trader." He held up a heavy burlap sack in his right hand.

There was a long pause from within, then a muffled voice called out, "Come on in, but keep your hands where we can see them."

He made his way around the boulder and moved forward, stopping just short of the door.

"Who are you?" came the voice from inside. "What do you want?"

Ransom shrugged. "Trader or raider," he called. "I'm no raider, or I wouldn't be standing out here in the open."

"What do you have to trade, then? And where are the rats?"

Ransom reached down slowly for the bag at his feet. Reaching inside, he pulled out two heads by their queues, tossed them towards the door. He tossed the third one after them a moment later. They bounced a little, rolled and came to rest in the dust.

"I have some other stuff tucked away," he called, "but I thought these would do for openers."

There was silence from inside.

"You did that?" came the next question.

"Your sign says 'water'," he replied. "I'm thirsty and they were in the way."

"How many...?"

"Just these three. The one with the red hair told me that there are another six holed up in a cave nearby. Would you know of it?"

There was a murmured discussion inside, then the door opened a foot. He couldn't see into the dark interior, but took it as an invitation. Keeping his hands raised, he approached the doorway slowly, Donnie by his knee,

"That's far enough," the voice said. He stopped. He looked at the dog beside him. "Lie down, Donnie," he commanded. The dog did so, looked up at the man, the tip of his tail twitching.

"Turn around," the voice demanded. He did so, slowly, then took a risk. Facing the door, he dropped his hands slowly.

"Seen enough?" he asked. "If so, like I said, I'm thirsty and would like to fill my canteen before I move on."

There was a muffled discussion inside, then the door swung open and a young woman stepped outside. The girl was dressed in jeans and a faded hoody which concealed her figure quite effectively. Tall, her auburn hair was tied up in braids lying on her shoulders.

She held a lever-action rifle, an old one. From the way she held it, she seemed to know what she was doing. Still cautious, she held it pointed slightly off to one side; Ransom was happy to notice her finger was on the trigger guard, not the trigger.

Looking Ransom in the eyes, she said, "You're welcome to water. And food, if you want that. We're in your debt."

"I could do with a meal," he admitted, then grinned broadly.

"What's so funny?" she asked, clearly not convinced of his intentions.

Ransom chuckled. "It just struck me that you're the first clean person I've seen in a long, long time."

She smiled back. "Solar power - it's a great invention." She motioned him towards the door with the muzzle of the rifle and followed him as he entered.

Inside, he found himself in what had obviously been a general store. Many of the shelves were empty, but even in the dim light, his eyes still widened at what was left.

"Far enough," a second voice commanded. This was a man's, but old, thin and reedy. Ransom turned slowly to face him.

The man was elderly, perhaps in his late 70s. While he was painfully thin now, Ransom could see the remnants of what had once been great strength. To the trader's surprise, the old man was clean-shaven but for a neat moustache; his snowy hair was cut short and properly combed. The old .45 pistol in one wrinkled hand was shaking a little, but Ransom for some reason didn't think it was from fear. He was dressed in faded jeans and a tired t-shirt. A washed-out and indecipherable tattoo could be seen on his left forearm.

"I'm Jim," the man announced. Brown, piercing eyes locked onto Ransom's. "Who're you now?"