"c52" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

5:00 P.M., Friday, December 31, 1999
Agate, Colorado

When he bummed a ride, Nate had neglected to ask Georgina if she had a family, and if so, how large it was. How could he have slipped up so badly? He gritted his teeth as two more of her brothers and her parents arrived in a caravan of Suburbans, headed by Georgina's husband and five kids. He half wished the phones had already gone out as he expected them to in a few hours. Not only had the balance of the twenty Nate had originally invited mostly shown up, but they'd done so with friends. And family. And friends of family. And family of friends. His friends Steve and Jamal had likewise been busy on the phone after waking to the global carnage. Sixty people now crowded into Nate's farmhouse. None, of course, had thought to bring supplies. Nate saw from the first breaking of bread at their evening meal—which Nate had to eat standing up—that supplies were already going to be a problem. He mentally constructed a rationing plan. And hoped he had the authority to impose it. The evening wore on toward midnight with a sense of dread and anticipation like waiting, barely clothed in a cold exam room for a physical, daring not to think of what the doctor will poke where, but wishing very hard for it to be over and to be judged healthy. Everyone traded and re-traded the same stories and heresay and speculations. Had a plane flying to Tahiti crashed into the Pacific when it crossed the international date line? Had the Chinese government been overthrown? Had some of Russia's nuclear missiles actually launched? Even the news channels, when not drowned out by chatter, offered little besides speculation. Phones and satellite uplinks seemed in short supply. The Emergency Alert System, child of the old Emergency Broadcast System, did spring to life on the radio and TV, but said little other than to stay tuned for important information. More friends and relations trickled in. They complained they had nowhere to park, and had to walk on Nate's gravel road in the dark, and where was the beer? The lights flickered a few times as Nate's generator took over the load when the public power yo-yo'd. The crowd oooh'd and awww'd each time. Nate avoided Amber's gaze. Quiet on an ordinary day, Amber was now in one of her smoldering, silent-running moods. He ached to ask her where she'd been last night, but bit his lip every time the question asserted itself. She'd explode if he wasn't careful. If their relationship was to mean anything at all, he had to trust her. She tried to tell him several times, but he shook his head, waved her off. She was baiting him. He had to, he told her, prove to himself that he didn't have to know. She pursed her lips and stared angrily at him. This went on all evening. Eventually Nate felt from the set of her mouth that her pride had kicked in. Now she wouldn't tell him unless he asked, which he wouldn't, so the matter was laid to rest. She and Nate both tried to start trivial conversations, about the cold weather and how with Colorado weather you never knew the chances for a warm New Year's day; about the Broncos landing in the playoffs yet again, and how the odds seemed stacked against them this time for a Superbowl appearance; and each conversation somehow concerned long shots and slim chances for good things as their subconsciouses danced around their own odds of long term happiness. At ten o'clock the group watched in stunned silence as the Times Square "ball" descended and blacked out half-way down. They watched as the already nervous crowd rioted. TV crews provided both the light to loot by and the audience to play to. The police were powerless to prevent smashed storefronts, fights, bottle throwing, panicky stampedes away from tear gas plumes. Now Nate's crowd paid attention to the broadcasts of Chinese demonstrators being machine-gunned down and crushed beneath tanks. Londoners watching their tap water trickle to a drip as they filled buckets with the last of the pumped water and chuckled that maybe this, instead, was to be their finest hour. Some of Nate's guests left, explaining that now that they finally understood, that it was real, they had extended family they had to take care of. More strangers straggled in to fill their place. With a small amount of veggies and dips, and the hushed conversations, the mood was that of a wake. At midnight Nate led those around him in a half-hearted toast, "To those who prepared!" then wearily ordered everyone where to bed down for the night. The floor filled up with recumbent bodies. Nate wasn't proud that he was right, but he was proud that he'd saved so many people from facing the chaos outside. He hadn't wanted to be right; he'd so hoped he'd be wrong. No matter. The burden of guiding these people back to a safe civilization now fell on his shoulders with a collapsing weight. He finally shut down the lights at one a.m. and crawled into bed. Amber was waiting for him. He reached out under the covers to stroke her long thigh, but pulled back, too exhausted. As much as he wanted to trust her, tried to trust her, he couldn't bear to hear excuses right now and turned away, to sleep.

back | next home


Chapter 5.2

5:00 P.M., Friday, December 31, 1999
Agate, Colorado

When he bummed a ride, Nate had neglected to ask Georgina if she had a family, and if so, how large it was. How could he have slipped up so badly? He gritted his teeth as two more of her brothers and her parents arrived in a caravan of Suburbans, headed by Georgina's husband and five kids. He half wished the phones had already gone out as he expected them to in a few hours. Not only had the balance of the twenty Nate had originally invited mostly shown up, but they'd done so with friends. And family. And friends of family. And family of friends. His friends Steve and Jamal had likewise been busy on the phone after waking to the global carnage. Sixty people now crowded into Nate's farmhouse. None, of course, had thought to bring supplies. Nate saw from the first breaking of bread at their evening meal—which Nate had to eat standing up—that supplies were already going to be a problem. He mentally constructed a rationing plan. And hoped he had the authority to impose it. The evening wore on toward midnight with a sense of dread and anticipation like waiting, barely clothed in a cold exam room for a physical, daring not to think of what the doctor will poke where, but wishing very hard for it to be over and to be judged healthy. Everyone traded and re-traded the same stories and heresay and speculations. Had a plane flying to Tahiti crashed into the Pacific when it crossed the international date line? Had the Chinese government been overthrown? Had some of Russia's nuclear missiles actually launched? Even the news channels, when not drowned out by chatter, offered little besides speculation. Phones and satellite uplinks seemed in short supply. The Emergency Alert System, child of the old Emergency Broadcast System, did spring to life on the radio and TV, but said little other than to stay tuned for important information. More friends and relations trickled in. They complained they had nowhere to park, and had to walk on Nate's gravel road in the dark, and where was the beer? The lights flickered a few times as Nate's generator took over the load when the public power yo-yo'd. The crowd oooh'd and awww'd each time. Nate avoided Amber's gaze. Quiet on an ordinary day, Amber was now in one of her smoldering, silent-running moods. He ached to ask her where she'd been last night, but bit his lip every time the question asserted itself. She'd explode if he wasn't careful. If their relationship was to mean anything at all, he had to trust her. She tried to tell him several times, but he shook his head, waved her off. She was baiting him. He had to, he told her, prove to himself that he didn't have to know. She pursed her lips and stared angrily at him. This went on all evening. Eventually Nate felt from the set of her mouth that her pride had kicked in. Now she wouldn't tell him unless he asked, which he wouldn't, so the matter was laid to rest. She and Nate both tried to start trivial conversations, about the cold weather and how with Colorado weather you never knew the chances for a warm New Year's day; about the Broncos landing in the playoffs yet again, and how the odds seemed stacked against them this time for a Superbowl appearance; and each conversation somehow concerned long shots and slim chances for good things as their subconsciouses danced around their own odds of long term happiness. At ten o'clock the group watched in stunned silence as the Times Square "ball" descended and blacked out half-way down. They watched as the already nervous crowd rioted. TV crews provided both the light to loot by and the audience to play to. The police were powerless to prevent smashed storefronts, fights, bottle throwing, panicky stampedes away from tear gas plumes. Now Nate's crowd paid attention to the broadcasts of Chinese demonstrators being machine-gunned down and crushed beneath tanks. Londoners watching their tap water trickle to a drip as they filled buckets with the last of the pumped water and chuckled that maybe this, instead, was to be their finest hour. Some of Nate's guests left, explaining that now that they finally understood, that it was real, they had extended family they had to take care of. More strangers straggled in to fill their place. With a small amount of veggies and dips, and the hushed conversations, the mood was that of a wake. At midnight Nate led those around him in a half-hearted toast, "To those who prepared!" then wearily ordered everyone where to bed down for the night. The floor filled up with recumbent bodies. Nate wasn't proud that he was right, but he was proud that he'd saved so many people from facing the chaos outside. He hadn't wanted to be right; he'd so hoped he'd be wrong. No matter. The burden of guiding these people back to a safe civilization now fell on his shoulders with a collapsing weight. He finally shut down the lights at one a.m. and crawled into bed. Amber was waiting for him. He reached out under the covers to stroke her long thigh, but pulled back, too exhausted. As much as he wanted to trust her, tried to trust her, he couldn't bear to hear excuses right now and turned away, to sleep.


back | next home