The Demon Plagues by David VanDyke

he can!” grumbled Rick.
    Millie responded roughly, almost viciously,
in that derisive tone only siblings employ. “When you have as much
responsibility as he does we’ll see how you do, Ricky.”
    “That’s enough, you two,” their mother cut
in. “He’s the Chairman, he gets to struggle with policy. He feels
like the job’s not finished, and it hurts him. We have to help him.
Together.”
    “Yes mother,” they responded in unison, then
looked at each other sheepishly. For an instant it all felt like
ten years ago, just two confused tweens and a grieving widow buried
deep inside the Bunker.
     
    ***

    Markis put out his diplomatic feelers,
seeking backdoor contact through the Neutral States embassies and
political systems. The United Governments and the Unionist Party
had maintained a stubborn refusal to officially open relations with
the Free Communities, rather as the US had for many years refused
to deal with Maoist China, or Cuba under Fidel.
    On the morning of the third day Millicent
knocked and then entered without waiting for an invitation. Her
young face – genuinely young, rather than the slightly artificial
youthfulness of the rejuvenated – glowed with the good news.
    “Mister Chairman, Geneva is a go. They’re
sending the Canadian Prime Minister. He’s going openly to address
the Neutral States Assembly, but he will meet with you secretly
afterward under the auspices of the Swiss.”
    Markis stood up, throwing his stylus down.
“That’s excellent news. Set it all up, and I’ll leave tonight, as
soon as the jet is ready.”
     
     

 
     
-8-

    Barefoot, the boy padded along the dirty
streets of the Mexico City barrio, dodging cars and ignoring the
occasional complaint or stone shied at him as he trespassed on
someone’s tierra or patio . When he came to the door
of the boarding house he slipped inside, sneaking past the dozing anciana to the door he had been told. Knocking twice, he
shoved the envelope underneath. A moment later a ten-dollar bill
slid out in return. The boy snatched the money and ran back out
into the sea of poverty.
    Skull opened the envelope, reaching inside
for a paper with crude scrawling words. Lugar de las vacas
10 , it said. Literally, ‘place of the cows 10.’ In this case,
he knew it referred to a cantina near the meat packing district in
the Navarte suburb of Mexico City.
    His watch read 9:10pm. It was a gorgeous
Patek chronometer that he knew he should have given up long ago. If
he ever got picked up, it would be hard to explain in his cover
persona, but it was one of his few, his only affectations, his
links to his old life. He closed the battered leather cover over it
and slid it up his arm on its flexible band, well out of sight.
    Fitting a reliable – and untraceable – Smith
and Wesson .38 into his waistband, he strapped on his knives
forearm and calf, and pulled a battered cap onto his head. Grabbing
a bottle of Mescal, he gargled with a swig, then spat it onto the
floor. To anyone looking he was just another down-and-out,
underemployed vato in dirty slacks and a stained shirt,
already stinking of liquor and heading out for a few more
drinks.
    Double-checked his tiny room, he made sure
the removable plank hiding his weapons was perfectly snug, while
the loose board with a few dollars and some cheap jewelry was
obvious and easy to find. He left his sombrero lying on the bed,
his good ruffled shirt and suit hanging on a hook. Outside in the
hallway he tied a hair between two finishing nails up at the top of
the door and the doorjamb; if it was broken when he returned, he
would know he’d had visitors.
    He brought the near-empty bottle out with
him, holding it negligently in his gloved left hand, another piece
of his cover. He muttered and shuffled out of the building, calling
a slurred greeting to the flat-footed old landlady, who shook her
head disapprovingly at her perpetually drunk tenant. Reaching down
to stroke the building’s cat that arched against