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Occupied Riverdale	By : nodrogg Category: Comics > Archie & Co. Views: 9580 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Archie & Co, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapt II
"Betty?"
"Hi, Mom."
"Oh, thank God, I heard a car drive up - " In a kinder world, Alice Cooper and her daughter could have been sisters, with golden blonde hair and blue eyes - Betty even had her mother's nose. But the world of late had not been kind: The hair had greyed, the blue had faded; worry lines were graven into her face. Now she clutched the dish she had been drying and stared at Betty, her terror only slowly subsiding.
"I got a ride home with Reggie." Betty barked laughter at her own words - they sounded so weirdly, jarringly normal. How often had she ridden home from school in Reggie's car, back before the world ended?
"Reggie Mantle? Oh, Betty, why? You know better than to go anywhere with him - Oh my God!" Silhouetted against the daylight, Betty had looked normal enough; as she moved into the house, her mother saw the condition of her clothes. She started forward, looking at Betty wide-eyed.
"Did he - did they... "
"No." Betty spoke woodenly. "They were going to, but he stopped them."
"Oh, thank God." Alice folded Betty into her arms. "Thank heavens you're safe." She held her daughter close... and felt the tension in her. She pulled back, and saw the pools of tears in Betty's eyes.
"Dear heart, what is it?" Alice asked gently. At that familiar tone Betty's face crumpled, the tears poured down her face.
"He had Ronnie with him - and she tried to help me, and so that - that mraz' fucking svolota gave her to them instead! They - there were three of them, and - and they all... they... " Now she cried in earnest, oblivious to what she had said - she who would never have said so much as damn in her mother's hearing, before. For her part, though hearing obscenities in any language coming from her sweet little girl shocked her to the deepest core, with ancient wisdom her mother chose not to notice it either. She rocked the bitterly weeping girl, gently, standing in the hall of their dark and silent house.
"We will pray for Veronica - and for her parents." Wherever they may be, she did not add. She did not need to.
- - - - - - - - - -
"I'm going to take a shower."
"There's plenty of water - I filled the tank this morning. Should be nice and warm by now."
Betty's bedroom had that same sad, slightly shabby look that everything seemed to have now. Dusty and neglected, the blank screen of her little TV still faced blindly outward, and her darkened, useless electric alarm clock was still plugged in too, though it was relegated to the floor behind her night stand in favor of an ancient, wind-up double-bell clock whose ticking was the only sound in the room. She stood for a moment, looking out at the empty houses across the street, many of them with front doors still hanging ajar where random Eurasian "requisition parties" had swept through. A frightening number of people had simply vanished in the last year - teachers, journalists, intellectuals, and even librarians, anyone dubbed inuchiri by informers - arrested, sent no one asked where.
She shucked off her dirty clothes, putting the jeans aside to see if they could be repaired; they were of course completely irreplaceable, for the foreseeable future. Maybe she could scrounge the zipper from one of Chick's old pants...
She thought of her brother, and her sister Polly, out in San Gabriel. What had happened to San Gabriel? To the nation? Every radio in Riverdale had fried when the lights went out, and their Mongol overlords did not share such information with their subjects. The United States still existed, surely, but the State of Hudson was no longer among them.
Her panties were grey and threadbare from harsh soap and hand-washing, but she scarcely noticed such things any more. She slid them off, reached for her bathrobe - and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Unbidden, the image of Veronica Lodge screaming and struggling as she was ripped naked slammed into her mind, and Betty spun away from the mirror, hands clamped over her mouth. She heaved uncontrollably, but her stomach had nothing to bring up.
They were both thirteen or fourteen, and they'd been swimming in Veronica's huge outdoor pool. They went in to change, and when Betty emerged, she was wrapped in one of the blanket-sized bath towels Ronnie got in Mexico - but Ronnie... wasn't. She had her hair bound up in a towel, but the rest of her was... just her. Betty stared, feeling herself go crimson to the roots of her hair. With studied unconcern Veronica padded across the atrium, towards the kitchen. She turned and struck a fashion model pose, slender and graceful as a doe. "Dress code's informal around here, Betty," she said. "Though we do dress for dinner." She went on in - and in a sort of dazed bravery, Betty let her own towel fall away.
Standing together in the kitchen, they both got the giggles.
"What would you do if Archie showed up now?"
"Oh, my God."
"Let's call him, tell him to come over!"
"Ronnie, don't you dare."
"Then let's order a pizza. I dare you to go to the door! You can wear my Mardi Gras mask, no one will know it's you..."
"Are you serious?"
"Dare ya..."
A lifetime ago.
Betty pulled on her frowzy old terry bathrobe, as soft and familiar as a security blanket, and put on her flip-flops. She passed by the darkened door of the upstairs bathroom without a glance.
"Vict'ry, Betty!"
"Oh - oh, hi, Jack. You startled me."
"I just got in from our Pack hike." Eight year old Jack Curry looked up at her, his sweaty brown uniform horribly familiar. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Oh, but -" He had already gone past her, into the room he shared with Maria Saldano, also eight. By Mongol order, orphaned children - and there were so terribly many of them - were parceled out by lot to slugai parents, with no attempt made to keep siblings together. The Cooper household would have received three, but Betty was counted in. To what extent that may have been Reggie Mantle's doing, Betty preferred not to know.
Betty considered simply going ahead as if she had not heard. The days of running water in the house had ended when the municipal electric pumps went off with everything else. The shower was a hammered together stall in what had been the back yard, where a heavy black plastic bag held sun-warmed water, poured in bucket by bucket from the galvanized metal tub. It was tepid at best, and there wasn't much of it, and Jack would use it all.
But though she was twice his age and in her own house, he was in the Baron's Wolf Pack, and she was only a girl, and it was a very different world now.
And she hated it.
She was still standing there when Jack re-appeared in his own bathrobe. He looked at her in some surprise.
"Vict'ry!" It was an all-purpose greeting.
"Yes - victory, Jack." He marched on past her and down the steps, and Betty looked after him, her soft blue eyes suddenly hard and misted with hatred - of him, of brown uniforms, of Baron Fyodor Nikolaievitch Ugenberg... Hatred of Mongols and all Eurasians, hatred of constant fear and hunger and pain and dirt. Of Eurasians treating her like dirt because she was slugai; of Wolf Pack thugs treating her like dirt because she was female...
Now that schools were closed and the Boy Scouts were disbanded, most boys belonged to the Wolf Packs - training cadres where they received what schooling they would get, plus martial arts and Oriental mysticism, bushido... and with them, the Oriental fatalism and contempt for women. And timid little Maria Saldano was accepting it; she did as Jack told her and made way for him with a meek submission that set Betty's teeth on edge. When eight became fourteen and he developed new desires, that resigned obedience to his will would play right into his hands.
And Betty had a role to play, too - by order of the occupational authority all unmarried girls under twenty-one were enrolled in the Bund Ugenbergische Madel, the 'Girl Scouts' of Baron Ugenberg's empire. It was not taken anywhere as seriously; Betty often had the impression that it was something of an afterthought - but still she had to give the hated greeting and never contradict, to defer always to the wishes of this little boy and say nothing about any of it, because if she ever did, if she ever disagreed or disobeyed or showed her temper, Jack had only to tell his Pack Leader that she was 'noochi'... and there'd be no Veronica to head off the result this time. Ugenberg's Cossacks would come in the night, and another front door would hang open on broken hinges, another house would be empty, plundered by soldiers and tramps...
"Hey, Betty!" Jack reappeared at the foot of the steps. "Betty?"
"... Yes, Jack?"
"You were here first. Do you - do you want to, y' know, use the shower? I can wait."
She stared down at him open-mouthed, and he squirmed. "Just don't tell any of the guys, okay? I'd get laughed at."
She had never met the Currys, before, but suddenly she felt she knew them. Electric lights may have gone out, but the candle of Western Civilization - of justice, the Golden Rule, basic courtesy - still flickered.
- - - - - - - - - -
She took her shower; no shampoo, no conditioner, no facial cleanser, just bar soap with two 45-second sprays of lukewarm water, and it felt wonderful.
Ethel Muggs was waiting for her when she stepped out.
"Hey, Betty."
She'd been called 'Big Ethel' in school, not always behind her back; the name suited her. At least a head taller than Betty and far lankier, Ethel had always reminded her of the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz -- graceless and angular and distinctly unfeminine. If she had not had such a mad, hopeless, hilarious crush on the standoffish Forsythe Jones, she might have been suspected of 'batting for the other team.' As it was, making Ethel presentable was now a doubly lost cause. In her grease-stained mechanic's coveralls and baseball cap, she needed a second look to even tell that she was a girl.
Betty hadn't really had much to do with her, before; now that she thanked her God every day that Archie had put her hands on an automobile engine and showed her how everything worked and how to fix it, now that her Madelbund classification was 'skilled labor - motor pool,' she often worked with Ethel and had come to genuinely like her.
"I brought your work gloves back," Ethel said. "It was nice of you to let me borrow them." She was indeed holding a pair of heavy canvas gauntlets, but Betty's ears pricked up - she hadn't loaned anything to Ethel...
"You don't need to bother about me, I don't have time to stay," Ethel was saying - the modern politeness most people used now, when hospitality demanded serving a guest some food or drink. None were in ample supply.
"Well, thank you for returning them so quickly; I'm sure I'll be needing them," Betty said carefully. She knew now why Ethel had come, though it surprised her; there hadn't been any clandestine meetings for quite some time now. The "Riverdale Resistance" had sounded fine and dramatic, and they had made daring plans... but somehow all the fun went out of it when Vice-Principal Howitzer and two other men were tortured, mutilated and horribly burned, and finally hoisted upright and sat down onto sharp poles in front of the high school stadium, impaled as saboteurs. Betty heard that it had taken them two hours to die on those blood- and shit-slimed poles...
"They're clean. Be careful," Ethel said - innocent-sounding enough, but two different sentences that only appeared related. Betty knew what she meant. Ethel raised a hand in farewell, and disappeared around the side of the house.
- - - - - - - - - -
Back up in her room, Betty inspected the gauntlets carefully. There had to be something... Experimentally she drew them on - and her finger stubbed into paper, rolled into one finger of the glove. She withdrew a loose roll that proved to be two pieces of paper.
The one read, simply, Chalk Lit 7. That was fairly obvious - though of course, she'd grown up here. To a Eurasian, making the connection to Pop Tate's Choklit Shoppe would be practically impossible.
The other, larger paper was a travel pass. Slugai were not allowed on the street after the dusk curfew without one. Betty had only seen one once before, when her shift at the motor pool ran late. This looked much the same, written in Russian and the curling scribbles of Mongolian. She made out her own name, and Bal'nitsa, which she knew meant 'Hospital,' but in the Pritchina blank, the Purpose, what was Daryitel' krovi?
It might save her life to know. She dug out the well-thumbed Russian-English dictionary that her brother had got for her, one long ago Christmas.
'Chick' Cooper was in the OCI, the Office of Central Intelligence. The American Black Hand, it was called; Chick told her not to believe it, but she'd heard stories of what they'd done during the War on both sides of the Friedrich Line, and in the years since 1964 - that they'd deposed Argentina's General Galtieri, President Shri Reddy of India, anyone who supported the yellow banners of the Lord of Samarkand. Though someone who was pronounced by the Dalai Lama to be the divine reincarnation of Ghengis Khan - and had done such a remarkable job of proving it - needed no great help...
Paging back and forth, Betty ciphered it out - she was needed as a blood donor. That's why she was being sent to Riverdale General Hospital - and Pop's Choklit Shoppe was on the route she'd normally take from her house. Clever, she thought.
She looked again, closely, holding up to the light, turning it at various angles. It was a good forgery. No, she realized: It was perfect. She squinted closer, her scalp tightening in dawning excitement. This was no matter of bleaching or scraping away ink, however carefully; it had been printed like this. "Holy cow," she whispered.
Somewhere, a computer had carefully juggled pixels; somewhere, a laser-printer had exactingly produced what she now held: An artifact, a message from the outside world - from the United States of America. They did still exist - and they were fighting back against the invaders.
Sitting in her silent and slowly darkening room, Betty began, for the first time in so very long, to smile.
- - - - - - - - - -
As she was supposed to be on official business, Betty pulled out her Madelbund uniform: White blouse and red neckerchief, dark green skirt and matching beret, walking shoes. Twice a week she had to wear this to meetings at what had been the Riverdale Presbyterian Church, where she sat stifling yawns while heavily-accented "guest speakers" droned on about the Safeguarding of Civilization, and the Holy Cause of Baron Ugenberg, the Great Khan who strives ever to banish the dark spirits of depravity and decadence, and bring cleanliness and order to an enlightened world...
Betty always had mixed feelings about wearing the Madelbund uniform: Distasteful and horrible as it was, yet there was a dark, shivering delight in wearing it that she would never admit to anyone ever -- for she knew, everyone knew what the "Bund girls" of conquered Europe did, or were forced to do, for boys in the Wolf Packs of Eurasia. There were as yet no American Lagerya Volka, no Wolf Pack Camps such as she had heard rumored to exist in the forests of the Crimea and the South of France, where naked slugai girls slaved at camp chores and were awarded at the evening campfire to the choice of the boys victorious in that day's games. If there were... For one moment, Betty imagined herself showering with other girls out in the open, the intimate secrets of her body displayed to watching boys; imagined herself kneeling nude at Archie's feet, serving him, loving him, and imagined his touch... Delicious, blushing warmth spread over her, but she shook her head. No. After all, what if it wasn't Archie? The image of Veronica came to her, red-faced and squirming as rude hands ravished her pinioned, naked body, and Betty shuddered. In sudden loathing she started to strip off that coarse, horrible uniform... but she needed it.
She had to admit, the beret at least looked good on her; it made her look European and exotic, like one of the girls of Paris back during the War. She was settling it into place when she heard the work-bus clattering down the street outside. It stopped with a tired hiss of brakes, and she ran downstairs to meet her father.
Harold Cooper had been a relaxed, heavy-set man with a thick shock of sandy hair. Now he was cautious, a great deal thinner and nearly bald. Decades ago the Navy had taught him to be a machinist; his old skills now kept his family out of the camps. He smiled tiredly at Alice and Betty, holding each close in turn. Hugs had become so important, now; each one affirmed each time that the loved one was still here, still alive...
The last golden light of afternoon was shining in the curtainless windows when the Coopers sat down to dinner. The cans of ration food Betty had brought home - products of some Eurasian work farm, tinned in a factory compound, labelling badly printed - provided coarse but filling food: Soy and lentil paste, rice, some sort of 'stew.' Betty picked at it listlessly.
"Eat." Her father's tone was firm.
"Yes, sir." There was no point in trying to explain what had happened today - particularly not with Jack Curry sitting across from her, shoveling it in with ears wide open. She bent to the task of chewing and swallowing, ignoring the strange, metallic taste.
"It's not Madelbund night, is it, Betty?" her mother asked, noticing the uniform for the first time.
"No," Betty replied as casually as she could manage, "but I received this at work today." She produced the travel pass and handed it to her father, who looked at it without comprehension. "I have to go to the hospital tonight."
"What!" Alice Cooper's face was white. "Whatever for?"
"They need me as a blood donor. I'm sorry, Mom - I meant to tell you when I got home, but I was kind of upset." Bless you, Veronica, she thought.
"Where does - " Hal Cooper shut up. He handed the paper back to Betty - but Jack Curry swiped it from her fingers, perused it eagerly. His face fell. "I can't read it." He made the same connection, and looked a challenge at her. "How do you know what it says?"
Because I have brains and a dictionary, she wanted to say - but in this world, it was not wise for her to demonstrate having either one. "... I've seen that before," she managed. "Ruthie Stembottom got one last week."
"Oh." To his credit, Jack looked sheepish. "Sorry." Then he remembered, and assumed a samurai scowl. "Very well."
Betty knew better than to laugh.
- - - - - - - - - -
Dinner was finished, and Betty was helping her mother wash the dishes, when her father appeared in the kitchen door.
"Betty - come in here a moment." Hal Cooper's voice was stern. Betty put down her plate and went into the living room.
The past year had changed all their lives, but their living room reflected little of that; it still looked much as it had on that 12th of May last year, when the bright, safe, cheerful world she had known all her life had ended. Competing and steadily winning against the deepening evening outside, the light of a single candle gleamed off furniture and picture frames and the dead television set, still facing the room. That would never work again, even if the lights came back on - but her mother kept it dusted and clean, as though it wanted only the touch of a button to spring to brilliant, mesmerizing life again. It was surprising how little Betty missed television - surprising how little that numbing, hypnotizing engine of ugliness and conformity had ever really mattered...
"How are you getting to the hospital?" Her father's voice broke in on her thoughts.
"Why - by bicycle, I suppose," Betty answered. "...Why?"
Her father did not immediately answer, he went to the sliding glass doors and looked out. Jack Curry and another boy were in the back yard, casually sparring kendo with heavy bamboo shinai sticks.
"I didn't raise my little girl to be a liar," Mr Cooper said. He turned. "Maybe I should have. You're not very good at it. You're not going to the hospital at all, are you?"
Betty's heart sank. "No, sir," she whispered. "... How did you know?"
"If it was this urgent, they'd have sent a car. Not risked their 'blood donor' on the streets after curfew. Where are you going?"
"The Chocklit Shoppe. There's some kind of meeting."
"Isn't there always?" Mr Cooper looked toward the mantel, where a black-and-white photograph had stood as long as Betty could remember. Four young men in American DB uniforms and helmets held their rifles at jaunty angles and grinned confidently: Fred Andrews, George Bailey, Hal Cooper and Waldo Weatherbee. "The Hot Shots - Magdeburg Salient, 1955" was scrawled across the bottom. A lifetime ago.
"I'll go with you," her father said abruptly. "Or you're not going."
"Daddy - you can't." Betty stepped forward. "You don't have a pass. They'll arrest you - and me. And then they'll really look at the pass I got, and that will endanger everyone. I'm afraid too - but I have to go, and I have to go alone."
"You don't have to go." Her father reached out and took her by the arms. "You're just -"
"A girl," Betty finished. "I know it. But I'm also a Cooper - and it's my fight too." She pointed to the photograph. "You fought Ugenberg's Mongols. So did Grampa, back when the War first started. When the country needs us, Coopers don't quit."
Hal Cooper looked at her, started to speak... but there was nothing to say. So he folded her into his arms instead, and she clung to his solid warmth, to the anchor of her world.
"I love you, Daddy," she whispered.
- - - - - - - - - -
The evening hush was falling over Riverdale as Betty mounted her bicycle.
"Please be careful," Alice Cooper said, her voice betraying her trembling.
"Yes, Mom. I'll try to get a ride back," Betty answered. "But I'll probably have to spend the night there." She looked a moment longer at her mother - seeing the face drawn with fear for her, the chronic fear they all lived in - and felt anger rising. Freedom was so little valued, until it was lost. Freedom from want, freedom of speech, freedom from fear...
She was suddenly glad she had received the secret message.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll be all right - I promise." She waved, and set off down the empty, darkening street.
To Be Continued
- 1
- 2
- 3
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Occupied Riverdale