Aftermath Page 10

  It would be nice to complain, but who would he complain to? The road was total chaos, a tangled mess of new cars and trucks, billions of dollars abandoned where they had died ten days earlier. Not only cars, either. The puttering old tractor had passed dozens of bodies, pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and left to the mercy of the crows that patrolled the highway in search of roadkill. The only clear route was on the same left-hand shoulder, so he had often been forced to leave it and snake his way through the obstacle course of dead vehicles.

  He was not sorry to see the rainswept road empty of living people. Three hours earlier, as the downpour started, he had heard shooting off to his left. Not hunting. Hunters didn't use rapid-fire automatic weapons. Someone had managed to strip the smart microcircuits out of a modern machine gun and make the result work. Art patted the bag at his side. The old handgun that Ed had offered him—no, forced on him—was still there, along with a dozen clips of ammunition.

  "Sure you won't need this," Ed had agreed. "So you can just return it when you get back here. Same with the maps. They're pretty out-of-date, some of 'em, but I still use 'em." And, as Art stared at Joe, steaming triumphantly uphill on the little tractor, Ed added, "You can bring that back, too. Never forget one thing, Art. Second-class riding beats first-class walking, any day of the week."

  Art couldn't argue with that. He knew he would never make it on foot, with a bum knee and fifty-odd miles or more to go. The previous day's experience with Annie's horses had been less than encouraging. He had spent three hours staring at the rear end of two of them, trying to persuade the horses that his idea of a destination was superior to theirs. A tractor, even a slow and ancient one, was a gift from God.

  He slung the waterproof bag of food and supplies over his shoulder, said, "See you, then," and climbed aboard.

  "Watch that clutch when you use reverse," Joe called as Art began his stately progress down the gravel and dirt road. "Wish we were going with you."

  The funny thing was, he meant it. Radio and television were dead, but as long as power was off everything in the big cities had to be a total disaster. And Joe and Ed, like anyone with an ounce of curiosity, wanted to see the chaos and destruction with their own irrational eyes. Even Art had the urge, though if it weren't for his need to know about the telomod treatment he'd have made curiosity secondary to safety.

  The deep boom of an explosion, far off to his right, brought Art sharply back into the present. It was early evening, beneath sullen skies, and the flash created a bright splash of white in the dusk. He had started soon after midday, and already he was within the thirty-mile ring development zone that girdled Washington. Law enforcement ought to be better here than farther to the north. Based on what he was seeing and hearing, it was worse.

  Should he just keep on driving, as long as he could? The tractor had no lights. But if he stopped, where would he sleep? He could drive off the road and stretch out by the tractor, but it was getting chilly and the rain seemed ready to go on all night. One thing for sure: no matter what he did, he was going to feel terrible in the morning.

  It could be worse, Ferrand. You could be walking. And it could be even a lot worse than that.

  One of the most haunting things that he had ever read was in an old book, The Worst Journey in the World, about Captain Scott's expedition to the South Pole. The group who made the final run to the Pole were half-starved on the way back, working on difficult terrain, in temperatures twenty to forty degrees below freezing. Scott's diary entry showed that Evans, a desperately sick member of the party, became comatose one afternoon and died the same evening. That same morning, Evans had been trying to pull a sled.

  Why was he pulling? Because he had no choice.

  You're getting old and soft, Ferrand. Here you are, riding in comfort. You have warm clothes and dry feet, and plenty of food. Keep going another few hours, you'll be at the Treasure Inn having a drink with Dana.

  Art wiped raindrops from his face and peered at the road ahead. There was more than enough light to see where he was going. Most of it formed a faint reddish glow, reflecting from the low clouds. With electric power still off, that glow did not come from street-lights. Parts of the city to the south were burning. It was a bad omen for the success of his trip.

  The tractor rode easily and quietly on its big balloon tires. At Art's fuel-conserving speed of six miles an hour, the sound of the engine was muted to a deep purr by its efficient muffler. He found himself drifting; in no danger of falling asleep, but hunched over the wheel, pursuing random thoughts, and allowing the faint gray strip of the road's shoulder to guide his way.

  Minute after silent minute, mile after uneventful mile. The rain was heavier, but the gusty wind had dropped to nothing. The highway was a graveyard of abandoned cars and trucks. Time had frozen, until at last a rattle of gunshots brought Art back to full attention. The shooting didn't sound close, but it made him realize that he had no idea where he was. The high overhead highway exit signs were unlit, and the lower and perhaps more readable ones sat off by the right-hand lane. His watch had become a useless bracelet on March 14, so he didn't know how long he had been traveling. His stomach, an unreliable guide, suggested nine o'clock.

  He steered over to the slow lane and watched for exit signs. One came into view after another quarter of an hour. He whistled when he was at last close enough to read it. He didn't need to pull out a map to tell him where he was. It was time to leave the main highway, and he was less than two miles from his destination. He had promised himself a nightcap at the Treasure Inn with Dana Berlitz, a fantasy just to keep him going. Now it seemed like a real possibility.

  He took the curved exit ramp and trundled out onto Montrose Road. At the traffic light at Seven Locks he turned south. The signal wasn't working, and he had yet to meet anyone else on the road.

  That changed within two minutes. Traveling in the opposite direction along the road, lights off, a dark car swept up to and past Art almost before he knew it was there. From the glimpse he caught of its elegant lines and long hood, it was a real antique; maybe a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, or perhaps a classic Lagonda touring model, a full century or more old. It was traveling at least seventy miles an hour.

  As usual, the very rich would find a way. But now wealth had to be measured by actual possessions, birds in hand. Bank accounts mean nothing when you have lost electronic storage of records.

  Much of the missing information would probably never be recovered. Too late to do anything about it, but this could be an excellent time to owe lots of money.

  The main highway from the north had seemed odd only because of its emptiness. Seven Locks Road was far more unnerving. This was a rich residential area. To right and left he ought to see the cheerful glow of curtained windows and floodlit driveways. Instead he saw the dark bulk of seven-bedroom ghost-town houses, silent and grim. In places he drove through a rank, rancid odor that the rain could not hide.

  But at last, a hundred yards ahead, stood the Treasure Inn. It was hardly visible from the road. No lit VACANCIES sign tonight. No lit anything.

  Art throttled back to a slow walking pace and eased into the far corner of the parking lot. He turned the engine off and sat still for half a minute, listening. The inn, like everywhere else, was dark and quiet. It might mean that no one was here; or it might mean that someone was here and didn't want it known.

  He slid off the tractor seat and stood for a minute, cursing his knee and stiff joints. As soon as he felt able to walk he set off around the parking lot, moving slowly and cautiously. It seemed deserted, until at the back of the lot he caught sight of a motorbike pushed deep into a thick hedge of forsythia.

  He felt the engine. Cold. He crouched low beside the rear wheel, rummaged in his bag for a box of wooden matches, and cautiously lit one. The license tag had expired—really expired. It was for 1996, thirty years ago. But it was a Virginia plate. That was encouraging. To get here he'd have tried to ride anything, including a magic carpet. Dan
a and the others would be no different.

  He stood up slowly, one hand on his stiff knee. Assuming that Dana had arrived on this bike and was at the inn, he still had a problem. How was he going to find her? Shouting her name didn't seem like a smart idea.

  He was still straightening when he felt a hand grip his shoulder from behind. Before he could turn a soft voice said, "Shh. It's me."

  "Christ! You'll give me a heart attack."

  "Not so loud! Follow me."

  Art's night vision was lousy. She was just a moving part of the darkness, but he blundered along after her in his too-big boots.

  "How did you know I'd arrived?" he whispered after forty blind steps.

  He heard an amused snort from in front of him. "Are you kidding? I could hear that thing you were riding when you were a quarter of a mile away. Let's hope no one else realized where you stopped. Come inside, we can talk normally once the door is closed."

  He sensed the opening in front of him, held his hands out to make sure of the location of the doorjambs, and stepped inside. He still couldn't see a thing, but presumably she could. He kept moving, heard the door close behind him, and stood sniffing.

  "What have you been doing in here?"

  "Nothing you wouldn't do if you could. It's the oil." She moved around him and he heard her walk away. Eight steps, ten steps. A long pause, and then suddenly he could see.

  He was in the bar of the Treasure Inn. Dana was standing at the counter, holding a jar with a flame at the top. "Vegetable oil burns all right," she said. "It just doesn't smell too good."

  "You brought it with you?"

  "Just the oil and the wick." She gave Art the smile he remembered, one that lit up the room better than the makeshift lamp. "I figured I'd find a jar or a can or something to put them in. Welcome to the Treasure Inn." She followed his look. "Yeah. I'm sorry I can't offer you a drink."

  Art was staring across the counter, where on his previous visits hundreds of bottles had stood on the shelves in neat rows. Now there were just half a dozen—all empty. It was worse than that. The pump handles had been torn off, the mirrors smashed, the countertop marked with what seemed to be blows from an ax. He turned to examine the broken window blinds.

  "It's all right," Dana said. "We face the hedge at the back of the parking lot. I checked, you can't see the light unless you're actually in the lot."

  "Someone did a real job on this place."

  "Yeah. They didn't just clean the place out. I don't know why, but they tore it to pieces, too."

  "You don't remember the Turnabout riots in '07?" Art sat down on one of the bar stools, as though taking the weight off his leg. Suddenly he felt weak and fragile. "You ought to remember, you're certainly old enough."

  "That's not very gracious, you know. I feel like an old woman tonight, but I don't need people telling me."

  In the dim light, with her fine jawline and high cheekbones, Art thought she looked about twenty-one. He said nothing, and she went on, "I saw coverage of the riots, of course I did, but I was out of the country and I had other things on my mind."

  "You were lucky. I was right here. Too much so. What were you doing?"

  "The Great Rush."

  "Antarctica? I was thinking about it only today. What the devil were you doing down there? You don't look like a prospector."

  "I wasn't. I was twenty-four, divorced, trying for something exciting." She saw Art's doubtful expression. "No, I wasn't a hooker. There were lots of them there, but I was just a supplier's secretary. Two years, and it wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. I made a fair amount of money, though—the prices were outrageous, and the merchants who supplied the goods and equipment did a lot better than the prospectors. But I missed the riots."

  "Something best missed. If you'd been here at the time, you'd understand this." Art waved his arm around the ruined room. "You see, the first wave comes in and takes out anything worth taking—drinks mainly, in this case. I'm surprised they didn't take the chairs, but they don't look as though they'd burn. When the second wave comes in, and doesn't find anything worth having, they get real mad. So they smash the hell out of everything. And any more waves do the same thing, over and over. Get in their way, they'll kill you without even knowing who you are. This place got off easy. The Turnabouts would have set fire to it, sure as sure."

  "They didn't just take the drinks." Dana pointed to the door that led through to the kitchen and dining room. "I hope you've eaten. They cleaned out every last bit of food. Even salt and spices."

  "I've got food." Art patted his waterproof bag. "Did you eat?"

  "Enough. I brought my own, too. I don't want any more."

  "Well, maybe you'll join me in a drink." Art opened his mouth, then stopped and shook his head. "Either I'm way overtired, or I'm going crazy. I was going to ask you if there was any ice."

  "No power, no refrigeration, no ice. But never mind ice. I told you, there's no drink in this place."

  "There is if you brought your own." Art opened his bag, reached inside, and with the air of a magician taking a rabbit from a hat pulled out a quart plastic bottle. "Anything to drink out of?"

  "I thought you were kidding. Wait a minute." She went off through the door to the dining room, taking the makeshift oil light with her. Art had brought half a dozen candles from his mountain house, but he wasn't willing to waste one. Sitting in the darkness he unscrewed the plastic bottle top and took a small sip. He grimaced at Dana as she came back holding two measuring cups and a larger metal pan.

  "I don't look gift horses in the mouth, Dana, but this isn't one of Ed O'Donnell's better efforts. We'll need water."

  "Are you telling me that stuff's homemade?" She put the pan and cups down on the counter. "I don't know if I'm that desperate. But water, we have. I brought a bottle with me. There's a big tank down in the basement, too. I filled the pan earlier and it looks fresh, but I don't know if it's safe to drink."

  "Boil it, and you can drink any water that doesn't actually taste poisonous. Let me have those." Art took the metal pan, dipped a measuring cup in to fill it halfway, and topped the cup from the plastic bottle. He took a trial sip, nodded, and handed the cup to Dana.

  She stared at it suspiciously. "I thought you said you had to boil the water."

  "To kill bugs and bacteria. But alcohol does the same thing just as well."

  "So long as it doesn't kill me." She sniffed the liquid in the measuring cup and wrinkled her nose. "How long ago was this made?"

  "You don't look for vintage labels on drink that comes in plastic screw-top bottles." Art made his own mix, using the same proportions of moonshine and water. He raised his cup. "Come on, Dana, I'm not using you as a test animal. You may not need this, but I do. Here's to ruin."

  "We already have that. Here's to us." She raised her own cup and took a medium gulp. "Maybe I do need this. It's been quite a week. You never called me after that first time, you know."

  "I sure as hell tried to. All I got was dead lines. I did reach two others, just yesterday. Morgan Davis and Lynn Seagrave. They said there was no chance they could make it, they're off across country and no transportation systems are working. But they told me they'd try to network some others." The drink was burning its way down through his digestive system, leaving a trail of pleasant heat behind it. "How did you make out? Any luck?"

  "If you want to call it that. I tried a hundred times, but I only reached one person."

  "Who?"

  "Seth Parsigian."

  The warm glow inside Art faded. "That figures. Did he say he'd be able to come here?"

  "More than that. He's here already. He arrived before I did and left this." Dana handed over a piece of gray paper. On it, in meticulous block script, were the words: I WILL RETURN BY MORNING, I AM TAKING A LOOK AROUND.

  "How did he get here?"

  "I have no idea. Until you arrived my bike was the only thing in the parking lot. But you know Seth, he finds ways."

  "Right. He was prob
ably chauffeured here in a stretch limo." More from uneasiness than hunger, Art rummaged in his bag and came up with a loaf of Helen O'Donnell's home-baked bread and a slab of smoked ham. He hacked off pieces of both and handed them to Dana. Despite her claim to want no food, she took them and began to eat.

  "We have to be logical about this," Art went on. "You may not like him much—"

  "I don't like him at all."

  "And I certainly don't care for him. But if anybody in the world can find a way to keep the telomod treatments going, it's Seth."

  Maybe it was the feeling that the old world was ended. Maybe it was closeness and candlelight. But Art knew that he and Dana were breaking two unwritten rules of the treatment group. You said nothing to anyone of what you thought or knew about other members; and you kept your emotional distance from all of them. He and Dana were closer today than they had ever been in the three years he had known her. There was a protective logic at work. When Art joined, the group had forty-two members. Five of those had died, horribly, when the treatment failed and cancers ran riot all through their bodies. You knew what might happen to you, but you didn't want to be too near when it happened to someone else.

  He tore off a piece of bread, bit savagely into it, and said, "So what makes you so down on Seth?"

  "Nothing specific, just impressions." She avoided Art's eyes as she went on. "Look, I want to live, and so do you. We've fought hard for the right; but there are limits to what we'd do. I wouldn't sacrifice you to save myself, and I hope you feel the same about me. Seth probably regards that as weak and wimpy. I believe he wants to live so bad, if it would help his treatment he'd kill his own mother and serve her up for breakfast."