"c12" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

4:55 A.M., Friday, December 31, 1999
Agate, Colorado

Nate Zamora fumbled off his buzzing alarm. He forced himself awake; he'd already snoozed it once. "Wake up, General Sherman," he said, nudging the bluepoint Siamese cat curled under the sheets with his toes. "You don't want to miss the last glorious day of civilization." The cat ignored him. Nate sat up in bed, pulled up the comforter, grabbed the wireless keyboard from his nightstand, and clicked up CNN on the giant flat-panel monitor hung on the wall. More peace talks in Ireland, more Serbian strife, riled up Sikhs, yadda yadda yadda. Only a "coming up next" about the approach of midnight toward the International Date Line and a light-hearted teaser about whether the millennium bug would prove itself real. "You think I'd waste my money on this drafty shithole if it wasn't?" he asked the newscaster. Nate briefly debated whether to consume precious soap with a shower, giving a sniff under his lanky arms. He decided against it, and, using his videoconferencing camera and the screen as a mirror, straightened his goatee, ran a comb through his long black hair, and tied it up in his usual pony tail. With a few clicks Nate brought up the farmhouse's status. He'd invested many hours in wiring up the 1920's house with 100-Base-T Ethernet, motion-sensitive color and infrared CCD cameras in and out, X-10 controls for every appliance including a few less than legal defense systems, and ensuring that the whole house could run off the battery backup and the gasoline generator that automatically cut in once the battery dropped to 50%. The underground gasoline tank held a three months' supply, if he used the juice frugally. A recent and self-described "amateur" survivalist, Nate had taken the expensive but quick route regarding food: The pantry was stocked with Survive Anything's one year food pallet, plus a stash of Captain Crunch and other necessities. In the nearby cluster of bedrooms slept his cadre of friends and family, whom he'd spent hours cajoling to be here for New Years. Out of twenty he'd invited, only a half-dozen had come: his half-sister (never less than half-drunk), his brother Russ and wife Mary Beth (or as Nate secretly called her Ms. Bible Thumper), dependable friends Steve and Jamal, and Jamal's girlfriend, Dominique. Not even Herschel, a programmer like Nate at Denver-On-The-Net.Com, had bothered to show up. Well, Nate had warned everyone for months; that they'd chosen to ignore him wouldn't be on his conscience. With all the excess supplies, Nate mused, he and those who came would be as self-sufficient here as humans could be. That didn't necessarily mean comfort, of course. Air whistled though the cracking clapboards, the roof leaked when snow melted slowly off it, the detached garage still smelled of old dung like a barn, and the lingering hay made Nate's eyes water every time he went to the car. His drive into work took hours longer than from his condo in suburban Aurora. But he had to credit the idea to Ed Yourdon, the famous promoter of structured software design and Y2K prophet, for the idea was sound. Farmhouses were the ideal safe-haven from the collapse of civilized services. Septic tank, well water, land for farming. Not that Nate knew the first thing about farming, nor intended to try; but the thought was reassuring should Y2K chaos linger. He was proud that he'd chosen this one, near Bijou Creek, patting himself on the back for the creek's proximity in case his well dried up; a backup to the backup. As self-sufficient as they could be. Yet here was this gaping emptiness in the bed beside him that should be filled with Amber. He'd planned it all out. As soon as the world was back on its feet, and Amber didn't feel dependent on him, he'd pop the question. He wanted to make absolutely sure she wouldn't say yes out of some need, because he had a Y2K-ready fortress and she might think he was using that to his advantage, pressuring her, or just because she might think it expedient. He wanted their marriage to last fifty, sixty, seventy years like those old codgers on the Today show. He'd already made reservations for July 21st, 2000, her twenty-fourth birthday, at Brasserie Z downtown. He'd already tipped the maitre d' for a table by the huge window on 17th street. He'd get down on one knee, in full view of the world, and pull the ring out magically from behind her ear, lightly brushing her auburn hair, her translucent cheek. Nate looked over at the wall where the ring sat in the safe, behind the Renoir print. Just to be safe, he'd also booked a reservation at The Fort, in Morrison. One of the two was sure to be open in seven months. Amber had left a voice mail during the night. Just after two a.m., according to the custom telephony program he'd written. She should have been right here, in the empty space beside him at two a.m. What was she doing up that late? He'd long ago asked her to skip work today and spend last night and onward here at the bolt-hole, as he called it. Sure, she'd said, you bet, sounds like fun. He tried to explain it wasn't fun he was planning, but survival. She'd given him a quick kiss and smiled. Yesterday he'd left her a reminder message, but hadn't been able to contact her. Now, when it came to putting her feet in gear, she'd left a message saying she had to work, and she'd be down tonight. Two a.m.? No, he would not be jealous. He'd forgiven her the "indiscretion" with Duane Weldon. She'd been honest about it, she'd told him, he'd forgiven her, and he swore he wouldn't doubt her again. He carefully folded up his incipient jealousy like a junk flyer and threw it out. He felt the same now as the day after they'd met at a party two years ago, a couple lonely GenX'ers on the rebound. They'd gone to his place that night; had a wild time with a bottle of tequila; and she'd crept out before he awoke. Sometimes their relationship was measured by the empty spaces. He stroked General Sherman's light brown. "Well, you know what Jack Nicholson said in Wolf, don't you General. 'I've never loved anybody this way. Never looked at a woman and thought, if civilization fails, if the world ends, I'll still understand what God meant.'" He needed her here, right now; he needed to look into her eyes this very moment, pools the color of bittersweet chocolate. As the earth turned New Zealand toward direct opposition with the sun, Nate watched the assorted windows on his display. He hadn't found an Internet camera in New Zealand that displayed anything but nighttime black, so he watched one in Melbourne, Australia, instead. It showed lively partiers at Jumpin' JoJo's net-cafe. Of course, Melbourne was two hours behind New Zealand; it was only 10:00 p.m. there. He reached again into the vast archive of movie quotes in his brain. "'What did happen, exactly?' Tess asked. "'The earth moved. The angels wept. The Polaroids are, are, uh... are in my other coat. Nothing happened. Nothing happened!'" At the stroke of the very first midnight of the year 2000, Nate let out a disappointed sigh. As far as he could tell, absolutely nothing happened.

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Chapter 1.2

4:55 A.M., Friday, December 31, 1999
Agate, Colorado

Nate Zamora fumbled off his buzzing alarm. He forced himself awake; he'd already snoozed it once. "Wake up, General Sherman," he said, nudging the bluepoint Siamese cat curled under the sheets with his toes. "You don't want to miss the last glorious day of civilization." The cat ignored him. Nate sat up in bed, pulled up the comforter, grabbed the wireless keyboard from his nightstand, and clicked up CNN on the giant flat-panel monitor hung on the wall. More peace talks in Ireland, more Serbian strife, riled up Sikhs, yadda yadda yadda. Only a "coming up next" about the approach of midnight toward the International Date Line and a light-hearted teaser about whether the millennium bug would prove itself real. "You think I'd waste my money on this drafty shithole if it wasn't?" he asked the newscaster. Nate briefly debated whether to consume precious soap with a shower, giving a sniff under his lanky arms. He decided against it, and, using his videoconferencing camera and the screen as a mirror, straightened his goatee, ran a comb through his long black hair, and tied it up in his usual pony tail. With a few clicks Nate brought up the farmhouse's status. He'd invested many hours in wiring up the 1920's house with 100-Base-T Ethernet, motion-sensitive color and infrared CCD cameras in and out, X-10 controls for every appliance including a few less than legal defense systems, and ensuring that the whole house could run off the battery backup and the gasoline generator that automatically cut in once the battery dropped to 50%. The underground gasoline tank held a three months' supply, if he used the juice frugally. A recent and self-described "amateur" survivalist, Nate had taken the expensive but quick route regarding food: The pantry was stocked with Survive Anything's one year food pallet, plus a stash of Captain Crunch and other necessities. In the nearby cluster of bedrooms slept his cadre of friends and family, whom he'd spent hours cajoling to be here for New Years. Out of twenty he'd invited, only a half-dozen had come: his half-sister (never less than half-drunk), his brother Russ and wife Mary Beth (or as Nate secretly called her Ms. Bible Thumper), dependable friends Steve and Jamal, and Jamal's girlfriend, Dominique. Not even Herschel, a programmer like Nate at Denver-On-The-Net.Com, had bothered to show up. Well, Nate had warned everyone for months; that they'd chosen to ignore him wouldn't be on his conscience. With all the excess supplies, Nate mused, he and those who came would be as self-sufficient here as humans could be. That didn't necessarily mean comfort, of course. Air whistled though the cracking clapboards, the roof leaked when snow melted slowly off it, the detached garage still smelled of old dung like a barn, and the lingering hay made Nate's eyes water every time he went to the car. His drive into work took hours longer than from his condo in suburban Aurora. But he had to credit the idea to Ed Yourdon, the famous promoter of structured software design and Y2K prophet, for the idea was sound. Farmhouses were the ideal safe-haven from the collapse of civilized services. Septic tank, well water, land for farming. Not that Nate knew the first thing about farming, nor intended to try; but the thought was reassuring should Y2K chaos linger. He was proud that he'd chosen this one, near Bijou Creek, patting himself on the back for the creek's proximity in case his well dried up; a backup to the backup. As self-sufficient as they could be. Yet here was this gaping emptiness in the bed beside him that should be filled with Amber. He'd planned it all out. As soon as the world was back on its feet, and Amber didn't feel dependent on him, he'd pop the question. He wanted to make absolutely sure she wouldn't say yes out of some need, because he had a Y2K-ready fortress and she might think he was using that to his advantage, pressuring her, or just because she might think it expedient. He wanted their marriage to last fifty, sixty, seventy years like those old codgers on the Today show. He'd already made reservations for July 21st, 2000, her twenty-fourth birthday, at Brasserie Z downtown. He'd already tipped the maitre d' for a table by the huge window on 17th street. He'd get down on one knee, in full view of the world, and pull the ring out magically from behind her ear, lightly brushing her auburn hair, her translucent cheek. Nate looked over at the wall where the ring sat in the safe, behind the Renoir print. Just to be safe, he'd also booked a reservation at The Fort, in Morrison. One of the two was sure to be open in seven months. Amber had left a voice mail during the night. Just after two a.m., according to the custom telephony program he'd written. She should have been right here, in the empty space beside him at two a.m. What was she doing up that late? He'd long ago asked her to skip work today and spend last night and onward here at the bolt-hole, as he called it. Sure, she'd said, you bet, sounds like fun. He tried to explain it wasn't fun he was planning, but survival. She'd given him a quick kiss and smiled. Yesterday he'd left her a reminder message, but hadn't been able to contact her. Now, when it came to putting her feet in gear, she'd left a message saying she had to work, and she'd be down tonight. Two a.m.? No, he would not be jealous. He'd forgiven her the "indiscretion" with Duane Weldon. She'd been honest about it, she'd told him, he'd forgiven her, and he swore he wouldn't doubt her again. He carefully folded up his incipient jealousy like a junk flyer and threw it out. He felt the same now as the day after they'd met at a party two years ago, a couple lonely GenX'ers on the rebound. They'd gone to his place that night; had a wild time with a bottle of tequila; and she'd crept out before he awoke. Sometimes their relationship was measured by the empty spaces. He stroked General Sherman's light brown. "Well, you know what Jack Nicholson said in Wolf, don't you General. 'I've never loved anybody this way. Never looked at a woman and thought, if civilization fails, if the world ends, I'll still understand what God meant.'" He needed her here, right now; he needed to look into her eyes this very moment, pools the color of bittersweet chocolate. As the earth turned New Zealand toward direct opposition with the sun, Nate watched the assorted windows on his display. He hadn't found an Internet camera in New Zealand that displayed anything but nighttime black, so he watched one in Melbourne, Australia, instead. It showed lively partiers at Jumpin' JoJo's net-cafe. Of course, Melbourne was two hours behind New Zealand; it was only 10:00 p.m. there. He reached again into the vast archive of movie quotes in his brain. "'What did happen, exactly?' Tess asked. "'The earth moved. The angels wept. The Polaroids are, are, uh... are in my other coat. Nothing happened. Nothing happened!'" At the stroke of the very first midnight of the year 2000, Nate let out a disappointed sigh. As far as he could tell, absolutely nothing happened.


back | next home