“He's in that boat driftin' downstream. Tried to get across.”
“What happened to him? Mother of Moses, make sense, will you?”
“They shot him,” the riverman said.
Gary whirled to scan the river again but could not see any vessel on its surface. “Who shot him? What for?”
“The soldiers over there shot him. He tried to get across, I told you.”
Gary stepped backward a pace. “Are you crazy?”
“I reckon somebody is.” The man straightened up and slowly searched through his pockets, to bring out a folded and creased sheet of pink paper. He handed it to Gary. “Nobody gets across, mister. We're contaminated.”
The leaflet contained about two hundred words, a terse notice written in army doubletalk with some attempt to water it down for public consumption. It stated briefly that that part of the United States lying east of the Mississippi River was under strict quarantine, due to atomic and bacteriological bombing by the enemy, and therefore all traffic across the river was forbidden. It was hoped the quarantine could be lifted in a short while. The leaflet was signed by a Sixth Army commander; Gary knew the Sixth was headquartered on the west coast.
“Where'd you get this?” he demanded.
The other pointed a thumb across the river. “Those fellers flew over in a plane and dropped them yesterday.” He turned bitter eyes at Iowa. “Blowed up the bridge, too.”