"c71" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

10:30 P.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Complete control of the Panama Canal had passed to the Republic of Panama as the clock struck midnight. The Panamanians were no doubt livid that at that moment the canal ceased to operate, as if they'd been sold a car whose axle fell off the moment they left the dealer's lot. The transit scheduling software bellied-up, as did the systems controlling the automated opening and closing of the locks and the towing locomotives. To add insult to injury, a Liberian container ship broke its fender chain as the towing locomotive stopped; it rammed and destroyed the first gate of the Pedro Miguel locks. Water being a theme, the radio reporter said in a slurred but gay tone, Las Vegas's municipal sewage system had ceased to operate, though the slot machines were clinking just fine. A sturdy nurse arrived with an improvised clipboard, which she proudly explained she'd contrived herself: The palmtop computer used for admissions, flipped upside down, with a rubber band holding pieces of paper in place. "Time to check out, dearie." "Isn't it a bit late at night? I thought the city was under a ten p.m. curfew or something," Morgan objected. He wondered what the odds were they'd lose the scrap of paper and either never bill them for their stay, or bill them for never having checked out. Desiree shook her head defiantly. "My baby's on a respirator and you're kicking me out? What if the power goes out again?" "This is a hospital! That's what we're here for. We'll take care of 'im." "You evidently weren't on duty all night while my husband and I played incubator because you hadn't the staff. I'm not leaving. I'll sleep in the hallway if I have to." "That's your own business, dearie, but we need your bed. I'd hate to have to call the orderlies. There's enough crazies out there," she said with a nod toward the outside world. "Shootings, looters, car accidents—the stop lights are all out, you know. Here, sign this. We can't process you out normally on account of the computers being down. This just says everything is okay and you'll check out later, when it's all working again." Indeed, the hand-written form said exactly that, with a wavy hand-drawn line for Desiree's signature. "I'll zip back to the flat and get the sleeping bags," Morgan said. "If you sign it maybe they won't give us as hard a time if we camp out." "I don't know about the 'everything is ok' part," Desiree grumbled, but she signed anyway. "Probably what some HMO in the states would do anyway; drive through baby delivery." "Here's something for the pain," the nurse said. She handed over an unlabeled pill bottle. She seemed flustered at her routine being broken—surely any other day she would think to simply label the bottle by hand—and stood silently for a moment, as if trying to remember what all one did at check out time. "G'day, then," the nurse said and left. Desiree gingerly rose from the bed. "Don't they take you out in a wheelchair or something?" Morgan wondered. "I'll go find one." "No, no, it's okay. They're probably short on them. I can walk." Morgan went back to the bed and snatched a pillow and blanket. "They owe us this much at least." With Desiree adequately comfortable in the maternity waiting room, Morgan headed to their flat. The military roadblock was two blocks into his journey. Two New Zealand Army soldiers stood idly by their diagonally parked jeeps that blocked the road. "Let's have a look at your pass, mate," the officer said. He shined his torch directly in Morgan's eyes. Adrenaline surged in Morgan's veins. He had every right to be out here, every necessity, but he lacked the all important bureaucratic pass. "Of course. Of course I do, where did I put it." He patted his pockets. "The hospital gave me so much paperwork," he lied. . He turned out all his pockets, felt around the car's seat. He tried not to act as desperate and helpless as Jeremy's problems made him feel. "I can't find it." He shrugged. He eyed the narrow gap between the jeeps: just car width so, it couldn't be taken at any speed. Smashing the wooden barricade in front of it would dent the car up pretty badly, too. Morgan decided against running the blockade. "Sergeant," Morgan said, looking at the man's insignia, "can you cut me some slack?" He explained about Jeremy, the generator, the respirator. "So you're a computer programmer, eh? Well, mate, then I don't know whether to shoot you or hurry you on your way." The sergeant scanned the dark scenery with a twisted frown, as if Morgan were personally responsible for the darkness and chaos. After the leisurely scan, his eyes came to rest in a hard stare at Morgan. The assault rifle remained pointed uneasily toward his head. "Oh, pass him on, Danny" the other soldier said. The first soldier offered a cold smile. "Awright, mate, you look harmless enough. Just let me log your license number. And your phone number, in case I need some computer help." He jotted down Morgan's ID. "Next time, get a pass, eh?" "Thanks, Sergeant." Morgan drove off and pulled onto the first side street. They couldn't have blockades on every street. The next guys might not be so "friendly." He twisted around one street, then another, frustrated that he couldn't simply drive home. He saw several blockades, headed away from each like a mouse eyeing a sleeping cat. There was a blockade on the main street that ran in front of their flat. Morgan parked a block away and killed the engine, the lights. How was he going to lug all the gear he had in mind back to the hospital? They'd see him crossing the street, since both entrances to the apartment block fronted on the street they guarded. To hell with it. He'd bluff his way in and back out. Morgan eased the car down another block, out of view. He turned on the headlights, scrounged up a pen in the glove box, and wrote on the back of an old windshield advertisement, "Official Pass - issued to Morgan Hyland by Dr. Stungton of Middlemore Hospital. Mr. Hyland is authorized to return to his home for the purposes of retrieving supplies for an extended hospital stay, and returning therewith. Direct questions to Dr. Stungton at 999-8000." He scrawled some unrecognizable signature. Who knew what was official? Pure paper societies lent themselves more easily to scams. Morgan gunned the Citroen and drove confidently up to the checkpoint. The soldier put a hand out in the universal "stop" signal. Morgan slowed and held his "pass" out the window. When he came within a couple meters the soldier waved him through with nary a glance at the paper. What a coward he'd been! This was easy. Morgan bounded up the stairs two at a time. He quietly whistled as he counted off doorways in the dark, quiet hall. Matty was apparently back at work, as the apartment was empty. She'd left a note saying since she couldn't pay to stay with them, she'd cleaned up a bit. The dangerous glass shards, mashed food, and other lint had been picked up, and she'd made an attempt to clean the carpet. She thanked them again for letting her crash there, and said that she'd be back after her shift. Morgan crammed their backpacks with their standard camping gear and returned to the hospital by midnight. Morgan lugged in Desiree's pack plus his own on his back. She was snoring softly in a waiting room chair. All the other chairs were filled likewise, folks sleeping with heads on chests, on arms, lolled back. Desiree's pillow had somehow landed under one neighbor's head, her blanket around another. The lights were off here, to conserve power. Morgan covered Desiree with her sleeping bag he'd brought, quietly slid to the floor beside her, unrolled his own sleeping bag, and stretched out at her feet. "All the planes in the States have been grounded," he heard someone say in the distance as he faded off to sleep.

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Chapter 7.1

10:30 P.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Complete control of the Panama Canal had passed to the Republic of Panama as the clock struck midnight. The Panamanians were no doubt livid that at that moment the canal ceased to operate, as if they'd been sold a car whose axle fell off the moment they left the dealer's lot. The transit scheduling software bellied-up, as did the systems controlling the automated opening and closing of the locks and the towing locomotives. To add insult to injury, a Liberian container ship broke its fender chain as the towing locomotive stopped; it rammed and destroyed the first gate of the Pedro Miguel locks. Water being a theme, the radio reporter said in a slurred but gay tone, Las Vegas's municipal sewage system had ceased to operate, though the slot machines were clinking just fine. A sturdy nurse arrived with an improvised clipboard, which she proudly explained she'd contrived herself: The palmtop computer used for admissions, flipped upside down, with a rubber band holding pieces of paper in place. "Time to check out, dearie." "Isn't it a bit late at night? I thought the city was under a ten p.m. curfew or something," Morgan objected. He wondered what the odds were they'd lose the scrap of paper and either never bill them for their stay, or bill them for never having checked out. Desiree shook her head defiantly. "My baby's on a respirator and you're kicking me out? What if the power goes out again?" "This is a hospital! That's what we're here for. We'll take care of 'im." "You evidently weren't on duty all night while my husband and I played incubator because you hadn't the staff. I'm not leaving. I'll sleep in the hallway if I have to." "That's your own business, dearie, but we need your bed. I'd hate to have to call the orderlies. There's enough crazies out there," she said with a nod toward the outside world. "Shootings, looters, car accidents—the stop lights are all out, you know. Here, sign this. We can't process you out normally on account of the computers being down. This just says everything is okay and you'll check out later, when it's all working again." Indeed, the hand-written form said exactly that, with a wavy hand-drawn line for Desiree's signature. "I'll zip back to the flat and get the sleeping bags," Morgan said. "If you sign it maybe they won't give us as hard a time if we camp out." "I don't know about the 'everything is ok' part," Desiree grumbled, but she signed anyway. "Probably what some HMO in the states would do anyway; drive through baby delivery." "Here's something for the pain," the nurse said. She handed over an unlabeled pill bottle. She seemed flustered at her routine being broken—surely any other day she would think to simply label the bottle by hand—and stood silently for a moment, as if trying to remember what all one did at check out time. "G'day, then," the nurse said and left. Desiree gingerly rose from the bed. "Don't they take you out in a wheelchair or something?" Morgan wondered. "I'll go find one." "No, no, it's okay. They're probably short on them. I can walk." Morgan went back to the bed and snatched a pillow and blanket. "They owe us this much at least." With Desiree adequately comfortable in the maternity waiting room, Morgan headed to their flat. The military roadblock was two blocks into his journey. Two New Zealand Army soldiers stood idly by their diagonally parked jeeps that blocked the road. "Let's have a look at your pass, mate," the officer said. He shined his torch directly in Morgan's eyes. Adrenaline surged in Morgan's veins. He had every right to be out here, every necessity, but he lacked the all important bureaucratic pass. "Of course. Of course I do, where did I put it." He patted his pockets. "The hospital gave me so much paperwork," he lied. . He turned out all his pockets, felt around the car's seat. He tried not to act as desperate and helpless as Jeremy's problems made him feel. "I can't find it." He shrugged. He eyed the narrow gap between the jeeps: just car width so, it couldn't be taken at any speed. Smashing the wooden barricade in front of it would dent the car up pretty badly, too. Morgan decided against running the blockade. "Sergeant," Morgan said, looking at the man's insignia, "can you cut me some slack?" He explained about Jeremy, the generator, the respirator. "So you're a computer programmer, eh? Well, mate, then I don't know whether to shoot you or hurry you on your way." The sergeant scanned the dark scenery with a twisted frown, as if Morgan were personally responsible for the darkness and chaos. After the leisurely scan, his eyes came to rest in a hard stare at Morgan. The assault rifle remained pointed uneasily toward his head. "Oh, pass him on, Danny" the other soldier said. The first soldier offered a cold smile. "Awright, mate, you look harmless enough. Just let me log your license number. And your phone number, in case I need some computer help." He jotted down Morgan's ID. "Next time, get a pass, eh?" "Thanks, Sergeant." Morgan drove off and pulled onto the first side street. They couldn't have blockades on every street. The next guys might not be so "friendly." He twisted around one street, then another, frustrated that he couldn't simply drive home. He saw several blockades, headed away from each like a mouse eyeing a sleeping cat. There was a blockade on the main street that ran in front of their flat. Morgan parked a block away and killed the engine, the lights. How was he going to lug all the gear he had in mind back to the hospital? They'd see him crossing the street, since both entrances to the apartment block fronted on the street they guarded. To hell with it. He'd bluff his way in and back out. Morgan eased the car down another block, out of view. He turned on the headlights, scrounged up a pen in the glove box, and wrote on the back of an old windshield advertisement, "Official Pass - issued to Morgan Hyland by Dr. Stungton of Middlemore Hospital. Mr. Hyland is authorized to return to his home for the purposes of retrieving supplies for an extended hospital stay, and returning therewith. Direct questions to Dr. Stungton at 999-8000." He scrawled some unrecognizable signature. Who knew what was official? Pure paper societies lent themselves more easily to scams. Morgan gunned the Citroen and drove confidently up to the checkpoint. The soldier put a hand out in the universal "stop" signal. Morgan slowed and held his "pass" out the window. When he came within a couple meters the soldier waved him through with nary a glance at the paper. What a coward he'd been! This was easy. Morgan bounded up the stairs two at a time. He quietly whistled as he counted off doorways in the dark, quiet hall. Matty was apparently back at work, as the apartment was empty. She'd left a note saying since she couldn't pay to stay with them, she'd cleaned up a bit. The dangerous glass shards, mashed food, and other lint had been picked up, and she'd made an attempt to clean the carpet. She thanked them again for letting her crash there, and said that she'd be back after her shift. Morgan crammed their backpacks with their standard camping gear and returned to the hospital by midnight. Morgan lugged in Desiree's pack plus his own on his back. She was snoring softly in a waiting room chair. All the other chairs were filled likewise, folks sleeping with heads on chests, on arms, lolled back. Desiree's pillow had somehow landed under one neighbor's head, her blanket around another. The lights were off here, to conserve power. Morgan covered Desiree with her sleeping bag he'd brought, quietly slid to the floor beside her, unrolled his own sleeping bag, and stretched out at her feet. "All the planes in the States have been grounded," he heard someone say in the distance as he faded off to sleep.


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