"c21" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

12:04 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Morgan heard laughter in the dark, but the nervous sort. People murmured uncertainly instead of talking boldly. "I suppose we know Mercury Energy's clock is a bit slow," Donald Emerson joked, his slow, bass voice easily distinguished. "Guess that mate was right who said Transpower's distribution software would get hit for sure," Tom Lansdale said. "Hey, they'll have the lights back up in a minute," Morgan said. "Desi, do we have any candles? Where's that flashlight?" "Mercury, get the power up in a minute? Morgan, my friend, you weren't here in '98. Took them over a month to get it sussed out. And that was just Auckland's central business district. I don't see lights anywhere," Tom Lansdale said. "Well, at least I'm not stuck in a lift this time," someone murmured. "It's congress's damn fault is what it is, screwing around with that Clinton thing," Chuck Guthrie drawled loudly. "And Clinton's, for wasting time on Saddam," he said, pronouncing the last as suh-damn. "And that affected New Zealand exactly how, mate?" someone asked. "Morgan has to draw from the other box now, I should think," said a female voice. "Ow, that's my foot," said a male voice. "Excuse me, coming through," Desiree said. "I'm not sure who I'm jostling, sorry. Oh is that you, George? So sorry. I'm maneuvering for two, you know." Someone found the telephone handset. "Cripes. The phone's out. Just gives busy." "So's my mobile," said another. The pleasantly soused voice asked, "'Sawfully dark. Anyone know what time the moon rises?" Ten minutes into the dark and still candle- and torch-less, Morgan could tell the novelty was wearing off. Practicalities nagged at him now. How to get everyone to their cars. The apartment building's stairs were treacherous. The blackout lights in the stairwell hadn't worked since they'd moved in. How to disentangle the ownerships of the mass of windbreakers and sweaters on the bed. He heard the sound of a shattering glass. How to prevent that TV cart full of their new champagne glasses from needing triage. How to arrange taxis for the Pleasantly Soused Voice and any of his kin. How to get foil and other wrappings on the food... Morgan tingled with the excitement of problem-solving. "Hullo! Here's the door!" Someone announced. The door to their flat swung open, admitting a spectral dance of flashlights reflecting off the hallway walls. Morgan zig-zagged to the door. He stumbled into something at knee level; it tipped over with a thud and terrific crash. "Shit! Hey, everyone, watch out over here, there're broken champagne glasses." He continued on to the doorway, out to the hall. "Roger, that you?" he asked a shape that might have been his neighbor. "It's me. Morgan. Say, you're not having a party tonight, right? What say we trade you a plate of sashimi to use your torch for a while? I've got a flat full of guests. I'll throw in a pack of Old Thumper if you can lead groups of five or six to their cars. Riki, could you bring those jackets from our bedroom out here? People can identify them as they set off." Solutions took shape. Morgan felt pumped up, ready to face the post-2000 world. Silhouettes made their ways to cars, jackets found owners, souseds found rides. What a story to tell baby Jeremy when he came. "Just sixty days, little fella," he told Jeremy, patting mommy's tummy after all the relays were completed, the flat was empty, and they'd collapsed—carefully—onto the couch. "Oh, God. What a mess," Desiree said. "Careful of your feet. How many breaking glasses did you hear?" "Three at least. I wish people would have had the foresight not to set them down in the middle of the floor. Oh well. What a party." "How long do you think the lights will be off?" Desiree's voice had the edge in it Morgan knew to be fear. "Don't worry, Desi. It's just like camping out." "Camping, I'd have a portable radio along. I told you we should have bought one." Morgan shrugged, invisible in the dark. "Who says they'd be saying anything? It's just a power outage." "I know, but my stomach's really tight. I don't think Dave's Curry Garlic dip agreed with me." "You're ok? You're sure?" "Yeah. But I'd like to hear that this isn't some Y2K apocalypse. I have one of those feelings." Morgan had learned to trust "those feelings" long ago. "Hey, we do have a battery-powered radio: The car's. We could go for a drive, if that'd make you feel better. Maybe try the laptop with the cell-modem." Morgan knew a drive usually calmed Desiree's nerves. He heard the fabric-rustle of a nod. "Yeah." The hall was quieter now as most of their neighbors had dwindled away to bed. Morgan led Desiree by the hand, glad for Roger's flashlight. Their Citroen Aura purred to life. Morgan edged out onto the deserted street. Warm muggy air blew their hair. "Reminds me of driving home from college in Topeka. No streetlights or anything. Just corn fields. A farmhouse light as rare as lights from those yachts out there." He couldn't see the shoreline, but suspected some of these were buildings with their own generators. He knew Auckland's SkyTower was out there somewhere, the tallest building in the southern hemisphere; he couldn't find even a shadow of its spikey height. Desiree shivered. "Here, try the radio." Static followed the snick of turning it on. Desiree manually scanned the frequencies. Static. "Probably have no power either. Even if they have backup generators, probably nobody there who knows how to turn them on," Morgan offered, annoyed that these twits' lack of forethought was upsetting his wife. "How do you do the search thingie? I thought you held that button, then that one." "You do. Maybe they..." Morgan stopped. He realized he really couldn't think of anything comforting to say. Crickets made the only noise as the radio scanned in silence. Several times it stopped, but the scanning logic had only picked up slightly noisier noise. Nothing in the FM band. Finally it landed on an AM station. A devout male voice solemnly intoned, "...hour of our death. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." The voice, without pause, repeated the prayer. Solemnly, Morgan thought; resignedly. As one would expect to hear if they'd just announced an asteroid was on its way to demolish the planet. And again. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." And again. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." Desiree pushed the buttons to scan for another station. Morgan had seen where she'd started, and suspected the result: It scanned the full spectrum without stopping elsewhere. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." "Shit!" Desiree said. After another refrain she snapped it off. "That's too fucking creepy." "Probably nobody there since this afternoon. Just a tape they'd set to play automatically." Morgan decided against trying the laptop. The car's battery would run it just fine, but he had a sinking feeling there was no 'out there' to connect to. Desiree squinched up and grabbed her belly and sides. "You okay?" Morgan asked. "Yeah. That Curry Garlic dip again. I've been antsy all evening. I'm okay." They drove around Manukau as if spectators gawking at riot-gutted buildings. They imagined faces peering out, ghostlike. Occasional other motorists passed them at panicky, breakneck speeds. Not once, for reasons Morgan reassuringly ascribed to coincidence, did they ever sight a police or other official vehicle. Desiree went "oooh." "The Curry dip again?" "Morgan, I think it's time." Desiree's face squinched up again. "You ready to head home? Sure." "No, it's time." Morgan's eyes bugged out. "It's time? But the baby's not due for two months! One or two pains doesn't mean— It can't, not—" "Morgan, I've been having contractions all day and my water just broke! Drive to the hospital!" Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Morgan leadfooted the accelerator. End of the world fears vanished, fleeing before... No, no time to panic. Oh God, he'd almost sideswiped a car! Don't panic. His arms turned to jello. Drive straight. Slow down. Think of something else. Pretend it's sudden joy. He'd waited so long for this moment. He was going to be a daddy! Morgan concentrated on that thought, pushing back the abject terror that clambered for escape, the terrified uncontrollable shaking of his muscles he knew would eventually overtake him, to which he must not give in. This was not the time for a premature baby. He focused on his happiness as if it were a distant speck in the sky he'd forever lose if he glanced away.

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Chapter 2.1

12:04 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Morgan heard laughter in the dark, but the nervous sort. People murmured uncertainly instead of talking boldly. "I suppose we know Mercury Energy's clock is a bit slow," Donald Emerson joked, his slow, bass voice easily distinguished. "Guess that mate was right who said Transpower's distribution software would get hit for sure," Tom Lansdale said. "Hey, they'll have the lights back up in a minute," Morgan said. "Desi, do we have any candles? Where's that flashlight?" "Mercury, get the power up in a minute? Morgan, my friend, you weren't here in '98. Took them over a month to get it sussed out. And that was just Auckland's central business district. I don't see lights anywhere," Tom Lansdale said. "Well, at least I'm not stuck in a lift this time," someone murmured. "It's congress's damn fault is what it is, screwing around with that Clinton thing," Chuck Guthrie drawled loudly. "And Clinton's, for wasting time on Saddam," he said, pronouncing the last as suh-damn. "And that affected New Zealand exactly how, mate?" someone asked. "Morgan has to draw from the other box now, I should think," said a female voice. "Ow, that's my foot," said a male voice. "Excuse me, coming through," Desiree said. "I'm not sure who I'm jostling, sorry. Oh is that you, George? So sorry. I'm maneuvering for two, you know." Someone found the telephone handset. "Cripes. The phone's out. Just gives busy." "So's my mobile," said another. The pleasantly soused voice asked, "'Sawfully dark. Anyone know what time the moon rises?" Ten minutes into the dark and still candle- and torch-less, Morgan could tell the novelty was wearing off. Practicalities nagged at him now. How to get everyone to their cars. The apartment building's stairs were treacherous. The blackout lights in the stairwell hadn't worked since they'd moved in. How to disentangle the ownerships of the mass of windbreakers and sweaters on the bed. He heard the sound of a shattering glass. How to prevent that TV cart full of their new champagne glasses from needing triage. How to arrange taxis for the Pleasantly Soused Voice and any of his kin. How to get foil and other wrappings on the food... Morgan tingled with the excitement of problem-solving. "Hullo! Here's the door!" Someone announced. The door to their flat swung open, admitting a spectral dance of flashlights reflecting off the hallway walls. Morgan zig-zagged to the door. He stumbled into something at knee level; it tipped over with a thud and terrific crash. "Shit! Hey, everyone, watch out over here, there're broken champagne glasses." He continued on to the doorway, out to the hall. "Roger, that you?" he asked a shape that might have been his neighbor. "It's me. Morgan. Say, you're not having a party tonight, right? What say we trade you a plate of sashimi to use your torch for a while? I've got a flat full of guests. I'll throw in a pack of Old Thumper if you can lead groups of five or six to their cars. Riki, could you bring those jackets from our bedroom out here? People can identify them as they set off." Solutions took shape. Morgan felt pumped up, ready to face the post-2000 world. Silhouettes made their ways to cars, jackets found owners, souseds found rides. What a story to tell baby Jeremy when he came. "Just sixty days, little fella," he told Jeremy, patting mommy's tummy after all the relays were completed, the flat was empty, and they'd collapsed—carefully—onto the couch. "Oh, God. What a mess," Desiree said. "Careful of your feet. How many breaking glasses did you hear?" "Three at least. I wish people would have had the foresight not to set them down in the middle of the floor. Oh well. What a party." "How long do you think the lights will be off?" Desiree's voice had the edge in it Morgan knew to be fear. "Don't worry, Desi. It's just like camping out." "Camping, I'd have a portable radio along. I told you we should have bought one." Morgan shrugged, invisible in the dark. "Who says they'd be saying anything? It's just a power outage." "I know, but my stomach's really tight. I don't think Dave's Curry Garlic dip agreed with me." "You're ok? You're sure?" "Yeah. But I'd like to hear that this isn't some Y2K apocalypse. I have one of those feelings." Morgan had learned to trust "those feelings" long ago. "Hey, we do have a battery-powered radio: The car's. We could go for a drive, if that'd make you feel better. Maybe try the laptop with the cell-modem." Morgan knew a drive usually calmed Desiree's nerves. He heard the fabric-rustle of a nod. "Yeah." The hall was quieter now as most of their neighbors had dwindled away to bed. Morgan led Desiree by the hand, glad for Roger's flashlight. Their Citroen Aura purred to life. Morgan edged out onto the deserted street. Warm muggy air blew their hair. "Reminds me of driving home from college in Topeka. No streetlights or anything. Just corn fields. A farmhouse light as rare as lights from those yachts out there." He couldn't see the shoreline, but suspected some of these were buildings with their own generators. He knew Auckland's SkyTower was out there somewhere, the tallest building in the southern hemisphere; he couldn't find even a shadow of its spikey height. Desiree shivered. "Here, try the radio." Static followed the snick of turning it on. Desiree manually scanned the frequencies. Static. "Probably have no power either. Even if they have backup generators, probably nobody there who knows how to turn them on," Morgan offered, annoyed that these twits' lack of forethought was upsetting his wife. "How do you do the search thingie? I thought you held that button, then that one." "You do. Maybe they..." Morgan stopped. He realized he really couldn't think of anything comforting to say. Crickets made the only noise as the radio scanned in silence. Several times it stopped, but the scanning logic had only picked up slightly noisier noise. Nothing in the FM band. Finally it landed on an AM station. A devout male voice solemnly intoned, "...hour of our death. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." The voice, without pause, repeated the prayer. Solemnly, Morgan thought; resignedly. As one would expect to hear if they'd just announced an asteroid was on its way to demolish the planet. And again. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." And again. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." Desiree pushed the buttons to scan for another station. Morgan had seen where she'd started, and suspected the result: It scanned the full spectrum without stopping elsewhere. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." "Shit!" Desiree said. After another refrain she snapped it off. "That's too fucking creepy." "Probably nobody there since this afternoon. Just a tape they'd set to play automatically." Morgan decided against trying the laptop. The car's battery would run it just fine, but he had a sinking feeling there was no 'out there' to connect to. Desiree squinched up and grabbed her belly and sides. "You okay?" Morgan asked. "Yeah. That Curry Garlic dip again. I've been antsy all evening. I'm okay." They drove around Manukau as if spectators gawking at riot-gutted buildings. They imagined faces peering out, ghostlike. Occasional other motorists passed them at panicky, breakneck speeds. Not once, for reasons Morgan reassuringly ascribed to coincidence, did they ever sight a police or other official vehicle. Desiree went "oooh." "The Curry dip again?" "Morgan, I think it's time." Desiree's face squinched up again. "You ready to head home? Sure." "No, it's time." Morgan's eyes bugged out. "It's time? But the baby's not due for two months! One or two pains doesn't mean— It can't, not—" "Morgan, I've been having contractions all day and my water just broke! Drive to the hospital!" Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Morgan leadfooted the accelerator. End of the world fears vanished, fleeing before... No, no time to panic. Oh God, he'd almost sideswiped a car! Don't panic. His arms turned to jello. Drive straight. Slow down. Think of something else. Pretend it's sudden joy. He'd waited so long for this moment. He was going to be a daddy! Morgan concentrated on that thought, pushing back the abject terror that clambered for escape, the terrified uncontrollable shaking of his muscles he knew would eventually overtake him, to which he must not give in. This was not the time for a premature baby. He focused on his happiness as if it were a distant speck in the sky he'd forever lose if he glanced away.


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