"c131" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

8:34 A.M, Wednesday, January 26, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

During his brief tenure as a free man, one of the line-standers had told Morgan that three weeks was the limit of people's patience while waiting for a major problem to be fixed. Like grief having stages from denial to acceptance, major imposition seemed to have its own stages, progressing from novelty, to awe, to disbelief, to a simmering sort of endurance, before the pot boiled over with unrelenting anger. It had been three weeks. According to one of the newly arrived hostages via the note passing news report (now grown to several scraps of paper torn from a book under cover of coughs), thousands of demonstrators had converged on Washington, D.C. over the weekend. Demonstrations flowered elsewhere as others caught the idea. The people demanded a return to the functioning society of a month before. The government must have known, they said. They must have planned. Now was the time to act on their plans, they said. Give us water, they said. Give us bread. Heat. Gasoline. Medicine. Television. Cokes and Hershey bars and Budweiser and Camels. Every necessity and amenity had its lobby screaming with frosty breaths outside and forcing their way into the Capitol, the White House, state capitols, grocery stores, emergency shelters—anywhere that had heat, or food. No street corner lacked for a hollow-looking father, mother or child, bundled against the cold, holding a cardboard sign seeking food, water, medicine, clothing, or some personally urgent item for their family. "Will work for food" was now meant literally. The limit was reached elsewhere, as well: Outside the theater where Morgan and Desiree were held captive, he could hear shouting. Many voices. A mob. Then a single report of gunfire. Another. Morgan heard glass doors shattering. He pulled Desiree down between the seats and covered her with his body. Their captors ran uncertainly up the aisles toward the corridor. The hostages began talking, low murmurs at first because they'd been denied sound for so long, then full fledged speech, then exciting gibbering. Suddenly the world exploded in a fury of automatic gunfire and the thunderous shouts and ground-pounding of a Roman legion charging down a hill. The floor vibrated like a stadium. More shots, single and automatic. Then only single. The Nation of the Strong's soldiers, untested in battle and lacking tear gas or other riot gear, apparently never had a chance against a desperate mob. Morgan heard doors slamming open behind him. Dozens of people streamed into the theater. "Where's the food?" some shouted. "Check over there," "shoot anyone who gets in your way," "there's only people in here," they shouted. But mainly, "Where's the food?" The frequency of pistol shots died down. A crowd-sized cheer went up from outside. The mob in the theater rushed out, leaving only a few stragglers like water droplets after a plugged sink has drained. "What's going on?" Morgan asked one of the stragglers, a wiry, sixtyish man with a trim beard and a fisherman's cap. "We heard this was where those carkin' terrorists hid their food. If the bloody police won't do anything, then by God, we will." He looked Morgan and the others over, as if just realizing the theater was full of people. "You must be them hostages they talked about on the radio. Well, 'gratulations, mate. You're free." Morgan and Desiree pushed through the throng in the corridor outside. They had to step over numerous bodies, both Nation of the Strong grunts and pale, almost gaunt civilians. The blond grunt who'd first guarded them at the hospital sat slumped against the back of the ticket booth. Holding a his blood-stained stomach, he looked at Morgan pleadingly. Morgan stopped. "We've got to call for ambulances. Do you think the phones work?" He stepped into the ticket booth, where he grabbed a phone. Thanking God for the dial tone, he dialed the emergency number, 111. Beside him lay today's newspaper—the first he'd seen this year. Morgan felt sorry for Texans as he read the first headline, "Dallas Chemical Plant Still Leaking; Hundreds of thousands remain homeless." But it was the second headline that clenched his stomach in a cold, iron grip. "U.S. Gov't Drafts All Programmers."

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Chapter 13.1

8:34 A.M, Wednesday, January 26, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

During his brief tenure as a free man, one of the line-standers had told Morgan that three weeks was the limit of people's patience while waiting for a major problem to be fixed. Like grief having stages from denial to acceptance, major imposition seemed to have its own stages, progressing from novelty, to awe, to disbelief, to a simmering sort of endurance, before the pot boiled over with unrelenting anger. It had been three weeks. According to one of the newly arrived hostages via the note passing news report (now grown to several scraps of paper torn from a book under cover of coughs), thousands of demonstrators had converged on Washington, D.C. over the weekend. Demonstrations flowered elsewhere as others caught the idea. The people demanded a return to the functioning society of a month before. The government must have known, they said. They must have planned. Now was the time to act on their plans, they said. Give us water, they said. Give us bread. Heat. Gasoline. Medicine. Television. Cokes and Hershey bars and Budweiser and Camels. Every necessity and amenity had its lobby screaming with frosty breaths outside and forcing their way into the Capitol, the White House, state capitols, grocery stores, emergency shelters—anywhere that had heat, or food. No street corner lacked for a hollow-looking father, mother or child, bundled against the cold, holding a cardboard sign seeking food, water, medicine, clothing, or some personally urgent item for their family. "Will work for food" was now meant literally. The limit was reached elsewhere, as well: Outside the theater where Morgan and Desiree were held captive, he could hear shouting. Many voices. A mob. Then a single report of gunfire. Another. Morgan heard glass doors shattering. He pulled Desiree down between the seats and covered her with his body. Their captors ran uncertainly up the aisles toward the corridor. The hostages began talking, low murmurs at first because they'd been denied sound for so long, then full fledged speech, then exciting gibbering. Suddenly the world exploded in a fury of automatic gunfire and the thunderous shouts and ground-pounding of a Roman legion charging down a hill. The floor vibrated like a stadium. More shots, single and automatic. Then only single. The Nation of the Strong's soldiers, untested in battle and lacking tear gas or other riot gear, apparently never had a chance against a desperate mob. Morgan heard doors slamming open behind him. Dozens of people streamed into the theater. "Where's the food?" some shouted. "Check over there," "shoot anyone who gets in your way," "there's only people in here," they shouted. But mainly, "Where's the food?" The frequency of pistol shots died down. A crowd-sized cheer went up from outside. The mob in the theater rushed out, leaving only a few stragglers like water droplets after a plugged sink has drained. "What's going on?" Morgan asked one of the stragglers, a wiry, sixtyish man with a trim beard and a fisherman's cap. "We heard this was where those carkin' terrorists hid their food. If the bloody police won't do anything, then by God, we will." He looked Morgan and the others over, as if just realizing the theater was full of people. "You must be them hostages they talked about on the radio. Well, 'gratulations, mate. You're free." Morgan and Desiree pushed through the throng in the corridor outside. They had to step over numerous bodies, both Nation of the Strong grunts and pale, almost gaunt civilians. The blond grunt who'd first guarded them at the hospital sat slumped against the back of the ticket booth. Holding a his blood-stained stomach, he looked at Morgan pleadingly. Morgan stopped. "We've got to call for ambulances. Do you think the phones work?" He stepped into the ticket booth, where he grabbed a phone. Thanking God for the dial tone, he dialed the emergency number, 111. Beside him lay today's newspaper—the first he'd seen this year. Morgan felt sorry for Texans as he read the first headline, "Dallas Chemical Plant Still Leaking; Hundreds of thousands remain homeless." But it was the second headline that clenched his stomach in a cold, iron grip. "U.S. Gov't Drafts All Programmers."


back | next home