Zero's Return (27 page)

“It’s
temporary
,”
Slade sighed.  “Besides, you didn’t shoot the three dissenters when you had a
chance, so now I’ve gotta clean up your mess.  Consider this penance.”  He
snatched up his Super Soaker and Pepsi, flipped the table-cloth down over the
skimmer, and went to sit at the head of the long table.  “On the bright side,”
he went on, gesturing to the massive quantities of alcohol they had laid out on
the table for their lackeys, “You get to drink loads of expensive whiskey,
instead.”

“I don’t like
whiskey,” Tyson told him.  “I like steak knives.”

“Poddite,” Slade
sighed.

Tyson squinted
at him.  “What?”

“Poddite,” Slade
said, carefully arranging his plastic cutlery.  “It means that your uninspired
tastes mark you as one of the mindless ranks of pod-people that mechanically
wander this earth, doing whatever their television or personal devices tell
them to, like drinking piss because it’s been marketed as ‘refreshing.’”  He
lifted a fork, inspected it, rubbed a dust flake off, then inspected Tyson over
it.  “Poddite.  It means you don’t have a mind of your own.”

“Anyone ever
tell you you’re a dick?” Tyson asked.

“Not that
often,” Slade sighed.  “I paid them too well.”  It was actually rather
refreshing to be insulted and threatened at gunpoint.  Life pre-Judgement had
gotten
very
boring.  Then he glanced at the clock and said, “Eight and a
half feet.  Go.  It’s showtime.”

With visible
internal debate, Tyson finally went.  He didn’t cross his arms, but he still
looked pretty badass standing behind Slade against the wall.  Like something
out of The Godfather.

Excellent,
Slade thought, delighted.

About thirty
seconds later, hundreds of thuggish men with guns began pouring into the room,
a few with their newly-acquired members pulled along by an elbow or whatever
clump of hair happened to be handy, well-dressed men and women alike whimpering
and dragging their feet, panicked eyes darting around, mascara running, ties
askew.

As Slade
watched, one of the better-dressed male captives freed himself of his bonds and
shoved his weapon-toting aggressor as he made a run for it.  He got ten feet
before his captor caught him by his gelled hair, threw him over the table,
yanked his slacks down, and took him right there in front of everyone, to the
jeers of the other former inmates.

That
was…unpleasant.

Given such a
stellar, grunting example of just one of the myriad things that could happen to
him if he did not maintain control over the mob, Slade carefully considered the
merits of this particular scheme.  Maybe the warden and his thugs had been the
wiser men, leaving the raping, murdering lunatics in their cells.  But Slade
was a philanthropist, and he couldn’t leave hundreds of men to starve to
death.  It had been…a quandary.

But, what was
done was done, and unless Slade wanted to kill them all—which he didn’t—he was
going to have to turn them into his unquestioning minions, instead.  That
should be easy enough.

Slade observed
as the men and women filtered around the screaming man to take whatever seat
they found most attractive—or whichever one they could take from someone else. 
Several even fought over the captives, to the captives’ dismay.  Slade knew all
the ones with guns by name, idly accessing their files in his head as they
jostled for position.  As he had predicted, being as close as possible to the
head table—and thereby to Slade—became a symbol of rank and authority. 
Excellent. 

Slade waited for
everyone to sit and for the worst of the skirmishes to settle, then raised a
hand for silence.

“As you all
know,” Slade said, re-steepling his fingers, “the world is ending.”  As if to
punctuate his statement, another bomb went off in the city to the west, making
the lights flicker again, despite the fact that Slade had already activated the
mall’s emergency generator and they were running completely on supplemental
power.

The silence was
almost overwhelming.  As Slade had expected, Stone and his friends were waiting
for a better time to spring their mini-rebellion on him.  Which meant they were
still scared of him.  Good.

“As leader of
this glorious new society—the Harmonious Society of God,” Slade continued, “I
have a few ground rules.”  He raised a finger.  “First, government can get
completely fucked.”

A round of
cheers and hoots went up from the sheeple gathered around him.  The thug in the
process of violently asserting his dominance over his unfortunate captive grew
bored and threw the quaking man down on the floor, then zipped up and went to
join his friends at the table.

“Second,” Slade
said, “you may each have
one
slave until you’ve proven yourselves
capable of providing food for more.  Food, starting today, is going to get very
scarce.  If our fellow survivors don’t eat it, the man-eating lizards they’ve
dropped on the planet will.”

There were some
disgruntled mutters at that, but then Slade raised his finger and said, “I am
smarter than you.  And as such, I have determined that food—not sex, drugs, or
beer—will be your biggest priority within a month.  If you want to survive, you
will act accordingly.  If you don’t…”  He gestured at the door.  “You are free
to leave.”

No one left,
though Stone, Big Phil, and Queso all looked at the door, then each other.  Ah,
so the knuckle-dragging furgs didn’t just want to leave.  They wanted to be in
charge
. 
How unfortunate for them.

“Third,” Slade
said.  “What was valuable before isn’t going to be valuable in the immediate
future.  Things like electronics, gems, and precious metals won’t have an
intrinsic appeal until society settles back into a routine and a form of
feudalism develops, my guess is in a hundred years or so.  Until then, I
suggest you begin hoarding things like cigarettes, coffee, drugs, alcohol,
soap—especially concentrated, antibacterial dish detergent—rope, wire,
antibiotics, birth control pills, matches, ammunition, airtight storage
containers, water purification systems, vegetable seeds, potatoes, marijuana
seeds, knives, guns, salt, spices, and flammable liquids.  And for the love of
Garfield, if you happen to be one of those lucky bastards who come across
Congie nannites, do
not
use them.  Given the proper lab, I can replicate
them.  In a few months, they’ll have the approximate trade equivalent as pure
ruvmestin.  Tyson will be passing out fliers for items I feel will have the
most value in the coming months, listed by order of trading demand.” 

On cue, Tyson
retrieved the stack of neon pink—because everybody loved pink—fliers they’d
made in the shopping center UPS store and dropped a few piles down in front of
people along the tables, to pass around amongst themselves.  Then he wandered
back to re-take his spot against the wall, further solidifying Slade’s position
with his six-foot-four-inches of obedient thuggery.

“If you look at
my graph, you’ll notice that paper will eventually be very valuable,” Slade
said, “but not for at least ten to twenty years.  Its price will go up
exponentially over time, though, as supply dwindles and Humanity tries to
remember and re-create what was lost.  If you wanna plan for the long-run,
stock up on paper, antibiotics, entertainment items, how-to books, and soap. 
If you’re more interested in short-term gains, I’d say stick with knives,
seeds, drugs, booze, coffee, and cigarettes.  Personally, if I were you, I
would diversify my portfolio, maybe keep a couple long-term items on hand, but
definitely have enough liquidatable assets that you can maintain your lifestyle
until your long-term investments can start paying off.”

Then, as the
inmates listened in quiet awe as if he were the suited CEO in yet another
boardroom meeting, Slade said, “Take a good look at the fliers, because we will
be leaving in two days.  On the back side of each sheet is a list of the
suggested items that each member should carry with him when we leave the
shopping center.  So, in case you knuckle-dragging furgs can’t read, before we
depart for the desert, each person should try to have three pairs of sturdy
boots that fit, two sets of sturdy
non-polyester
clothes, two pounds of
salt, a hatchet, a gallon of fresh water, a water purification system of some
sort, a sharp hunting knife, a multi-tool, a firemaking device—such as flint
and steel, matches, magnifying glass, or a lighter—two hundred feet of twine or
fishing line, a heavy-duty rain coat, a compass, a pack of needles with two
spools of tough thread, a durable backpack, a wool or polar fleece coat, a tent
or tarp, a down sleeping-bag, a cooking pot of at least one liter in size, and
one entertainment item of some sort—such as a deck of cards or a violin.  It
will be up to you to gather these supplies before departure, but anyone who
doesn’t have at least half of them at check-out will not be allowed to come
along.  Further, anyone caught hoarding these items before the minimums have been
met by the rest of the Society will forfeit all of their supplies and become
sustenance for the group.”

The inmates, who
had been studying the list, discussing it amongst themselves, went suddenly
quiet.

Once Slade was
sure all eyes were on him, he said, “Any questions?”

After a moment,
one of the braver inmates, a career criminal named Matt Jaeger, said, “Did you
just say you’d
eat
us?”

Slade gave him a
wry smile.  “No, I said that
we
would eat you.  Nobody likes to starve
to death, and that’s where the world is headed.”

“Oh, fuck that,
man,” Matt said, throwing his list down.  “Nobody’s fucking eating me.” 

“Then don’t
steal from the group,” Slade said, smiling.  “I know you’re accustomed to that,
but this
is
a matter of survival.  Something as simple as a box of
matches could mean the difference between life and death, and thieves will be
executed.”

The furg—a
kleptomaniac, really—snorted.  Grabbing a pretty blonde by the hair, he stormed
out.

Slade watched
him go, then sighed.  “He’ll be dead in a week.”

The other former
inmates looked amongst themselves nervously.

“Oh, don’t
worry,” Slade said, “all of your compunctions will fade with time and hunger. 
It’s not a
pleasant
thought, but it is likely going to be necessary in
order to maintain survival.  The planet simply has too many people, and its
food production systems have been irrevocably interrupted.  Even with the
man-eating lizards out there devouring our competition, we’re still going to
have trouble feeding ourselves until we can find a suitable permanent
settlement.”

More silence. 
Slade could tell that he was making sense to the morons, but they were still
stuck on the People-As-Food thing. 

“I also want to
make it clear that if we
ever
come across a domesticated animal of any
kind,” Slade said, “especially a chicken, goat, duck, or a rabbit, I will
personally manufacture a liter of morphine for each person who brings one to me
alive.”  He gestured at their list.  “As you can see, according to my
estimates, morphine will be at the most valuable end of the list of short-term
trade items.  Much more costly than the paltry couple of meals such an animal
might get you.”

As the furgs’
eyes widened at that, the numbers already crunching in their inadequate brains,
Slade went on, “Further, I will manufacture the equivalent of a quarter-pound
of Vicodin for each pound of sealed fruit or vegetable seeds you bring me.  A
pound of viable marijuana seeds will get you five times that price.”

Already, he saw
the calculation in their greedy little minds, and Slade knew, right then, that
his distraction had worked.  By creating a new economy—and installing himself
as the FED, more or less—he had solidified his power with a thousand times more
permanency than if he had simply shot a couple furglings in the head.

Still, Stone and
his friends were going to challenge.  He could see it in their beady,
unintelligent eyes.  Inwardly, Slade sighed.  At least all his preparations
hadn’t been for nothing.

“For now,
though,” Slade said, gesturing at the table spread out before them, “eat. 
Drink.  It’s probably going to be one of the last good meals you have for a
while, considering that the rest of the world is currently getting
annihilated.”  At his cue, their terrified servants began filing in with their
steaming platters of steaks, asparagus, and all sorts of other delicacies that
they had happened to have on hand in the back of the restaurant.

“Wait,” Dorrance
Greene, a pharmacist who had gotten caught peddling his wares under the table,
said, “are we even safe for two days here?  What if they start dropping bombs
on this place?”

“I only give it
a twenty-three percent chance,” Slade said.  “And that number goes down the
longer they wait.”  He started nonchalantly cutting his steak with his plastic
knife.

“What the hell’s
up with the plastic?” one of the closer furgs demanded.  “They don’t have
silverware in this joint?”

“We’re melting
them down for easy portability,” Slade lied.  He took a bite and closed his
eyes to savor it.

A moment later,
Tyson sat down beside him and snagged one of the passing plates of steak from
the wide-eyed, mascara-smeared kidnapees running to and from the kitchen. 
Without asking, his lackey popped open his newly-acquired pocketknife and
started cutting his still-bleeding slab of beef.

“You were supposed
to stay behind me,” Slade whispered.

“No way I’m
missing my steak,” Tyson said, around a mouthful of meat.  He followed that up
with a big scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy.

Slade gave a
disgusted sigh and gestured at the tables in front of them.  “Well, hopefully
the angry men with guns don’t decide to assert their challenge while you’re
sitting…” he glanced at the distance, “…four feet, seven and a half inches from
the danger zone.”