The Stand

eir small fire had been.

"It's Mark," Harold said. "He's sick."

"Sick?" she said, and then a low moan came from the other side of the campfire's ashes, where Perion was kneeling and the two men were standing. Frannie felt dread rise up inside her like a black column. Sickness was the thing they were all most afraid of.

"It isn't... the flu, is it, Harold?" Because if Mark came down with a belated case of Captain Trips, that meant any of them could. Perhaps the germ was still hanging around. Perhaps it had even mutated. The better to feed on you, my dear.

"No, it's not the flu. It's nothing like the flu. Fran, did you eat any of the canned oysters tonight? Or maybe when we stopped for lunch?"

She tried to think, her mind still fuzzy with sleep. "Yes, I had some both times," she said. "They tasted fine. I love oysters. Is it food poisoning? Is that what it is?"

"Fran, I'm just asking. None of us know what it is. There isn't a doctor in the house. How do you feel? Do you feel all right?"

"Fine, just sleepy." But she wasn't. Not anymore. Another groan floated over from the other side of the camp, as if Mark were accusing her of feeling well while he did not.

Harold said, "Glen thinks it might be his appendix."

"What?"

Harold only grinned sickly and nodded.

Fran got up and walked across to where the others were gathered. Harold trailed her like an unhappy shadow.

"We've got to help him," Perion said. She spoke mechanically, as if she had said it many times before. Her eyes went from one of them to the next relentlessly, eyes so full of terror and helplessness that Frannie once again felt accused. Her thoughts went selfishly to the baby she was carrying and she tried to push the thoughts away. Inappropriate or not, they wouldn't go. Get away from him, part of her screamed at the rest of her. You get away from him right now, he might be catching. She looked at Glen, who was pale and old-looking in the steady glow of the Coleman lantern.

"Harold says you think it's his appendix?" she asked.

"I don't know," Glen said, sounding upset and scared. "He's got the symptoms, certainly; he's feverish, his belly is hard and swelled, painful to touch--"

"We've got to help him," Perion said again, and burst into tears.

Glen touched Mark's belly and Mark's eyes, which had been half-lidded and glazed, opened wide. He screamed. Glen jerked his hand away as if he had put it on a hot stove and looked from Stu to Harold and then back to Stu again with barely concealed panic. "What would you two gentlemen suggest?"

Harold stood with his throat working convulsively, as if something was stuck in there, and choking him. At last he blurted, "Give him some aspirin."

Perion, who had been gazing down at Mark through her tears, now whirled to look at Harold. "Aspirin?" she asked. Her tone was one of furious astonishment. "Aspirin?" This time she shrieked it. "Is that the best you can do with all your big-talk smartassery? Aspirin?"

Harold stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked at her miserably, accepting the rebuke.

Stu said very quietly, "But Harold's right, Perion. For now, aspirin's just about the best we can do. What time is it?"

"You don't know what to do!" she screamed at them. "Why don't you just admit it?"

"It's quarter of three," Frannie said.

"What if he dies?" Peri pushed a sheaf of dark auburn hair away from her face, which was puffed from crying.

"Leave them alone, Peri," Mark said in a dull, tired voice. It startled them all. "They'll do what they can. If it goes on hurting as bad as this, I think I'd rather be dead anyway. Give me some aspirin. Anything."

"I'll get it," Harold said, eager to be away. "There's some in my knapsack. Extra Strength Excedrin," he added, as if hoping for their approval, and then he went for it, nearly scuttling in his hurry.

"We've got to help him," Perion said, returning to her old scripture.

Stu drew Glen and Frannie off to one side.

"Any ideas on what to do about this?" he asked them quietly. "I don't have any, I can tell you. She was mad at Harold, but his aspirin idea was just about twice as good as any I've had."

"She's upset, that's all," Fran said.

Glen sighed. "Maybe it's just his bowels. Too much roughage. Maybe he'll have a good movement and it'll clear up."

Frannie was shaking her head. "I don't think that's it. He wouldn't be running a fever if it was his bowels. And I don't think his belly would have swelled up that way, either." It had almost looked as if a tumor had swelled up there overnight. It made her feel ill to think about it. She could not remember when (except for when she was dreaming the dreams) she had been so badly frightened. What was it Harold had said? There's no doctor in the house. How true it was. How horribly true. God, it was all coming at her at once, crashing down all around her. How horribly alone they were. How horribly far out on the wire they were, and somebody had forgotten the safety net. She looked from Glen's strained face to Stu's. She saw deep concern in both of them, but no answers in either of them.

Behind them, Mark screamed again, and Perion echoed his cry as if she felt his pain. In a way, Frannie supposed that she did.

"What are we going to do?" Frannie asked helplessly.

She was thinking of the baby, and over and over again the question which dinned its way into her mind was: What if it has to be cesarean? What if it has to be cesarean? What if--

Behind her, Mark screamed again like some horrible prophet, and she hated him.

They looked at each other in the trembling dark.

From Fran Goldsmith's Diary

July 6, 1990

After some persuasion Mr. Bateman has agreed to come along with us. He sez that after all his articles ("I write them in big words so no one will really know how simpleminded they are," he sez) and boring twenty years of students to death in SY-1 and SY-2, not to mention the Sociology of Deviant Behavior and Rural Sociology, he has decided he can't afford to turn down this opportunity.

Stu wanted to know what opportunity he meant.

"I should think that would be clear," sez Harold in that INSUFFERABLY SNOTTY way of his (sometimes Harold can be a dear but he can also be a real boogersnot and tonight he was being the latter). "Mr. Bateman--"

"Please call me Glen," sez he, very quietly, but the way Harold glared at him, you would have thought he had accused Harold of having some social disease.

"Glen, as a sociologist, sees the opportunity to study the formation of a society first-hand, I believe. He wants to see how fact compares with theory."

Well, to make a long story short, Glen (which I will call him from now on, since that's what he likes) agreed that was mostly it but added: "I also have certain theories which I've written down and hope to prove or disprove. I don't believe that man arising from the ashes of the superflu is going to be anything like man arising from the cradle of the Nile with a bone in his nose and a woman by the hair. That's one of the theories."

Stu said, in that quiet way he has, "Because everything is lying around, waiting to be picked up again." He looked so grim when he said it that I was surprised, and even Harold looked at him sort of funny.

But Glen just nodded and said, "That's right. The technological society has walked off the court, so to speak, but they've left all the basket-balls behind. Someone will come along who remembers the game and teach it to the rest again. That's rather neat, isn't it? I ought to write it down later."

[But I've written it down myself, just in case he forgets. Who knows? The Shadow do, hee-hee.]

So then Harold sez, "You sound as if you believe the whole thing will start up again--the arms race, the pollution, and so on. Is that another of your theories? Or a corollary to the first one?"

"Not exactly," Glen started to say, but before he could go any further, Harold burst in with his own chicken-bone to pick. I can't put it down word for word, because when he gets excited Harold talks fast, but what he said amounted to how, even though he had a pretty low opinion of people in general, he didn't think they could be that stupid. He said he thought that this time around, certain laws would be made. One would be no fiddling around with badass stuff like nuclear fission and fleurocarbon (probably spelled that one wrong, oh well) sprays and stuff like that. I do remember one thing he said, because it was a very vivid image. "Just because the Gordian knot has been cut for us is no reason for us to go to work and tie it back up."

I could see he was just spoiling for an argument--one of the things that makes Harold hard to like is how eager he is to show off how much he knows (and he sure does know a lot, I can't take that away from him, Harold is superbright)--but all Glen said was, "Time will tell, won't it?"

That all finished up about an hour ago, and now I am in an upstairs bedroom with Kojak lying on the floor beside me. Good dog! It is all rawther cozy, reminds me of home, but I am trying not to think about home too much because it makes me weepy. I know this must sound awful but I really wish I had someone to help me warm this bed. I even have a candidate in mind.

Put it out of your mind, Frannie!

So tomorrow we're off for Stovington and I know Stu doesn't like the idea much. He's scared of that place. I like Stu very much, only wish Harold liked him more. Harold is making everything very hard, but I suppose he can't help his nature.

Glen has decided to leave Kojak behind. He is sorry to have to do that, even though Kojak will have no trouble finding forage. Still there is nothing else for it unless we could find a motorcycle with a sidecar, and even then poor Kojak might get scared and jump out. Hurt or kill himself.

Anyway tomorrow we'll be going.

Things to Remember: The Texas Rangers (baseball team) had a pitcher named Nolan Ryan who pitched all kinds of no-hitters and things with his famous fastball, and a no-hitter is very good. There were TV comedies with laugh-tracks, and a laugh-track was people on tape laughing at the funny parts, and they were supposed to make you have a better time watching. You used to be able to get frozen cakes and pies at the supermarket and just thaw them out and eat them. Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake was my personal favorite.



July 7, 1990

Can't write long. Cycled all day. My fanny feels like hamburger & my back feels like there's a rock in it. I had that bad dream again last night. Harold has also been dreaming about that ?man? and it upsets the hell out of him because he can't explain how both of us can be having what is essentially the same dream.

Stu sez he is still having that dream about Nebraska and the old black woman there. She keeps saying he should come and see her anytime. Stu thinks she lives in a town called Holland Home or Hometown or something like that. Sez he thinks he could find it. Harold sneered at him and went into a long spiel about how dreams were psycho-Freudian manifestations of things we didn't dare think about when we were awake. Stu was angry, I think, but kept his temper. I'm so afraid that the bad feeling between them may break out into the open, I WISH IT DIDN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY!

Anyway, Stu said, "So how come you and Frannie are having the same dream?" Harold muttered something about coincidence and just stalked off.

Stu told Glen and I that he would like us to go to Nebraska after Stovington. Glen shrugged and said, "Why not? We have to go somewhere. "

Harold, of course, will object on general principles. Damn you, Harold, grow up!

Things to Remember: There were gasoline shortages in the early 80s because everybody in America was driving something and we had used up most of our oil supplies and the Arabs had us by the short hairs. The Arabs had so much money they literally couldn't spend it. There was a rock and roll group called The Who that sometimes used to finish their live performances by smashing their guitars and amplifiers. This was known as "conspicuous consumption."



July 8, 1990

It's late and I'm tired again but I should try to get as much down as I possibly can before my eyelids just SLAM SHUT. Harold finished his sign about an hour ago (with much bad grace I must say) and put it on the front lawn of the Stovington installation. Stu helped him put it up and held his peace in spite of all Harold's mean little jibes.

I had tried to prepare myself for the disappointment. I never believed Stu was lying, and I really don't think Harold believed he was, either. So I was sure everybody was dead, but still it was an upsetting experience and I cried. I couldn't help myself.

But I wasn't the only one who was upset. When Stu saw the place he turned almost dead white. He had on a short-sleeved shirt, and I could see he had goosebumps all up and down his arms. His eyes are normally blue but they had gone a slaty color, like the ocean on a gray day.

He pointed up to the third floor and said, "That was my room."

Harold turned toward him, and I could see him getting ready with one of his patented Harold Lauder Smartass Comments, but then he saw Stu's face and shut up. I think that was very wise of him, actually.

So after a little while Harold sez, "Well, let's go in and look around."

"What would you want to do that for?" Stu answers, and he sounded almost hysterical, but keeping it under a tight rein. It scared me, more so because he is usually as cool as icewater. Witness what little success Harold has had getting under his skin.

"Stuart--" Glen starts, but Stu interrupts with,

"What for? Can't you see it's a dead place? No brass bands, no soldiers, no nothing. Believe it," he says, "if they were here they'd be all over us by now. We'd be up in those white rooms like a bunch of fucking guinea pigs." Then he looks at me and says, "Sorry, Fran--I didn't mean to talk that way. I guess I'm upset."

"Well, I'm going in," Harold sez, "who's coming with me?" But I could see that even though Harold was trying to be BIG & BOLD, he was really scared himself.

Glen said he would, and Stu said: "You go in, too, Fran. Have a look. Satisfy yourself."

I wanted to say I'd stay outside with him, because he looked so uptight (and because I really didn't want to go in, either, you know), but that would have made more trouble with Harold, so I said okay.

If we--Glen and I--had really had any doubts about Stu's story, we could have dropped them as soon as we opened the door. It was the smell. You can smell the same thing in any of the fair-sized towns we've traveled thru, it's a smell like decayed tomatoes, and oh God I'm crying again, but is it right for people not just to die but then to stink like

Wait

(later)

There, I've had my second GOOD CRY of the day, whatever can be happening to L'il Fran Goldsmith, Our Gal Sal, who used to be able to chew up nails and spit out carpet tacks, ha-ha, as the old saying goes. Well, no more tears tonite, and that's a promise.

We went inside anyway, morbid curiosity, I guess. I don't know about the others, but I kind of wanted to see the room where Stu was held prisoner. Anyway, it wasn't just the smell, you know, but how cool the place was after the outside. A lot of granite and marble and probably really fantastic insulation. It was warmer on the top 2 floors, but down below was that smell... and the cool ... it was like a tomb. YUCK.

It was also spooky, like a haunted house--the three of us were all huddled together like sheep, and I was glad I had my rifle, even if it is only a .22. Our footsteps kept echoing back to us as if there was someone creeping along, following us, you know, and I started thinking about that dream again, the one starring the man in the black robe. No wonder Stu didn't want to come with us.

We wandered around to the elevators at last and went up to the 2nd floor. Nothing there but offices ... and several bodies. The 3rd floor was made up like a hospital, but all the rooms had airlock doors (both Harold and Glen said that's what they were) and special viewing windows. There were lots of bodies up there, in the rooms and in the hallways, too. Very few women. Did they try to evacuate them at the end, I wonder? There's so much we'll never know. But then, why would we want to?

Anyway, at the end of the hall leading down from the main corridor where the elevator core was, we found a room with its airlock door open. There was a dead man in there, but he wasn't a patient (they were all wearing white hospital johnnies) and he sure didn't die of the flu. He was lying in a big pool of dried blood, and he looked like he'd been trying to crawl out of the room when he died. There was a broken chair, and things were all messed up, as if there'd been a fight.

Glen looked around for a long time and then said, "I don't think we'd better say anything about this room to Stu. I believe he came very close to dying in here."

I looked at that sprawled body and felt creepier than ever.

"What do you mean?" Harold asked, and even he sounded hushed. It was one of the few times I ever heard Harold talk as if what he was saying wasn't going out on a public address system.

"I believe that gentleman came in here to kill Stuart," Glen said, "and that Stu somehow got the better of him."

"But why?" I asked. "Why would they want to kill Stu if he was immune? It doesn't make any sense!"

He looked at me, and his eyes were scary. His eyes looked almost dead, like a mackerel's eyes.

"That doesn't matter, Fran," he said. "Sense didn't have much to do with this place, from the way it looks. There is a certain mentality that believes in covering up. They believe in it with the sincerity and fanaticism that members of some religious groups believe in the divinity of Jesus. Because, for some people, the necessity to continue covering up even after the damage is done is all-important. It makes me wonder how many immunes they killed in Atlanta and San Francisco and the Topeka Viral Center before the plague finally killed them and made an end to their butchery. This asshole? I'm glad he's dead. I'm only sorry for Stu, who'll probably spend the rest of his life having nightmares about him."

And do you know what Glen Bateman did then? That nice man who paints the horrible pictures? He went over and kicked that dead man in the face. Harold made a muffled sort of grunt, as if he was the one who had been kicked. Then Glen drew his foot back again.

"No!" Harold yells, but Glen kicked the dead man again just the same. Then he turned around and he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but at least his eyes had lost that awful dead-fish look.

"Come on," he sez, "let's get out of here. Stu was right. It's a dead place."

So we went out, and Stu was sitting with his back to the iron g