"c82" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

12:00 Noon, Saturday, January 1, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate regretfully pushed aside his concern about Amber. Nobody knew where she went, and she wasn't back. A dozen other of his guests, had, however, been out and back, as if this were a hotel. He couldn't allow that. "Okay, people, listen up." He addressed the entire group, assembled in his living room. He'd planned this speech for months, though never imagining it would be before a group of this size. He laid his 9mm Glock 17 pistol on the fireplace behind him for emphasis. "This is my farmhouse. I practically rebuilt it from the ground up, with one thing in mind—surviving this crisis. You're all welcome here, but on my terms. I can feed everyone here, with minimal rations, for—" he stopped himself. He almost gave away how much food he had. "—For long enough to survive this. But from here on out, nobody leaves without my permission. This is not a picnic, nor a sleepover. You'll get enough calories to survive, but none of us are going to be comfortable. Every time someone leaves, there's a chance some idiot out there will find out we have food here, and take it for themselves. That's food you won't get. Same goes for heat, water, and so on. Starving, freezing, dehydration... these are not pleasant ways to die. Therefore, you absolutely cannot, under no circumstances, tell anyone else where we are. Period. Anyone who leaves henceforth without my permission is not welcome back." Nate tapped the gun behind him. He didn't think a movie quote was appropriate, but let his voice lapse a little John Wayne-ish. "Until society returns to normal, consider yourself under a form of martial law. And since this is my house, and I've planned for this, and I know what I'm doing, I'm the marshal. I won't ask much of anyone, but if I do, you'll do what I say. Anyone who doesn't like this can leave now." Russ looked at the ceiling; Mary Beth clutched her bible, and looked poised to read, if Nate would only ask. People shuffled their feet. The last of Georgina's interloping brothers, Lenny, grumbled. His wife shushed him. The room was quiet save for the creaking pine floorboards. Nobody left. Nate strapped on a holster and inserted the Glock. He smiled privately that he didn't have a big star of a badge. But he swaggered around like John Wayne nonetheless. He deputized Jamal and Russ. Life began to take on a routine. Even in disaster, Nate had noticed, people like sameness. Thus he mandated that everyone go to bed at dark. They whined, but complied each night. There was little to do. Until some sense of sanity had returned outside, Nate said, nobody would leave. They watched TV, the one local station and the few they could pick up on the satellite. For local news, since broadcasting was sporadic, they taped hours on end on the VCR then fast-forwarded the static looking for news. On Sunday, they crowded around to watch replayed scenes of the first Red Cross relocation camp being set up just east of Denver. In windchills of zero, bundled up families raised their own tents, their dogs barking underfoot. The churches and schools initially suggested as shelters had spilled over. The army had supplied tents, but nobody to erect them. Most of the refugees would have been warmer sleeping in their own homes, but those interviewed said they feared for their safety. Gangs had gone on looting and shooting sprees, and a number of houses and apartment buildings had blown up as the natural gas supply puffed sporadically. Nate commented that they'd have been fine if they didn't try Stupid People Tricks like burning the gas as it came right out of the pipe. But few people knew exactly what to do to keep warm when the electric blowers on their furnaces had no power to move the hot air around their house. Eventually Public Service shut off the gas, but still many people panicked, not understanding that their own houses were in no danger of blowing up. Most businesses failed to open on Monday. Workers simply didn't report to work. The extended holiday feeling persisted. People interviewed, as well as Nate's guests, shrugged it off. "It's just like those future movies, where it's dreary all the time, and people burn trash to keep warm," one grinning fellow said on a weak signal from Minneapolis, where he warmed his mittened hands against a bonfire in a trash barrel while light snow fell around him. Indeed, the weather in eastern Colorado was cheerless too, though typical of January. Thin dirty clouds blocked the sun, draining the sky to a weak gruel color. Nate felt the same way. Amber's leaving had drained his fortitude. Where had she gone? Why hadn't she left a note? His guilt gnawed at him that she'd wanted to tell him that night, but he'd stupidly not listened. Perhaps she was at her apartment. But he couldn't go after her. He'd laid down the law to everyone about leaving; he could hardly be the first to go. Their enclave would be crushed like a cigarette butt if people left and told others about their supplies. Damn it! Their relationship might have been more like two adjacent chunks of spent charcoal in an ash pit than a roaring fire, but at least every now and then her mere nearness filled him with a glowing red warmth. And the not knowing—had she run from him, or to someone else? Or did she have another, altogether killer reason he'd just been too stubborn to listen to? Monday crept along indistinguishable from Sunday. Nate's guests ate his food and drank his beer and oooh'd and ahhh'd at the poor schmucks who had to stay in the relief camps. Lenny, groused the loudest. Why wouldn't Nate pop open the 'good stuff,' presumably meaning the rest of the beer and pretzels. Nate told him to cool it, in increasingly hostile tones, until he finally shut up and walked away muttering. After noon the wind began rising from the north, and the barometer continued to drop. January storms in Colorado produced, at best, a sort of light snow, as if the moisture had been wrung out of it; but they did nothing to raise anyone's spirits. "Stock show weather" people called it, after Denver's annual gathering of bulls and horses and cowboys. Somehow he doubted there'd be a stock show this year. Nate tried the phone again. Still dead. He slammed it down. He'd planned for this. If someone wasn't here, even Amber, even if he knew for a fact they were in trouble, which he didn't in this case—but even if he did, he was to absolutely not go looking for them. Fuck the plan, Nate thought. He grabbed his coat.

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Chapter 8.2

12:00 Noon, Saturday, January 1, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate regretfully pushed aside his concern about Amber. Nobody knew where she went, and she wasn't back. A dozen other of his guests, had, however, been out and back, as if this were a hotel. He couldn't allow that. "Okay, people, listen up." He addressed the entire group, assembled in his living room. He'd planned this speech for months, though never imagining it would be before a group of this size. He laid his 9mm Glock 17 pistol on the fireplace behind him for emphasis. "This is my farmhouse. I practically rebuilt it from the ground up, with one thing in mind—surviving this crisis. You're all welcome here, but on my terms. I can feed everyone here, with minimal rations, for—" he stopped himself. He almost gave away how much food he had. "—For long enough to survive this. But from here on out, nobody leaves without my permission. This is not a picnic, nor a sleepover. You'll get enough calories to survive, but none of us are going to be comfortable. Every time someone leaves, there's a chance some idiot out there will find out we have food here, and take it for themselves. That's food you won't get. Same goes for heat, water, and so on. Starving, freezing, dehydration... these are not pleasant ways to die. Therefore, you absolutely cannot, under no circumstances, tell anyone else where we are. Period. Anyone who leaves henceforth without my permission is not welcome back." Nate tapped the gun behind him. He didn't think a movie quote was appropriate, but let his voice lapse a little John Wayne-ish. "Until society returns to normal, consider yourself under a form of martial law. And since this is my house, and I've planned for this, and I know what I'm doing, I'm the marshal. I won't ask much of anyone, but if I do, you'll do what I say. Anyone who doesn't like this can leave now." Russ looked at the ceiling; Mary Beth clutched her bible, and looked poised to read, if Nate would only ask. People shuffled their feet. The last of Georgina's interloping brothers, Lenny, grumbled. His wife shushed him. The room was quiet save for the creaking pine floorboards. Nobody left. Nate strapped on a holster and inserted the Glock. He smiled privately that he didn't have a big star of a badge. But he swaggered around like John Wayne nonetheless. He deputized Jamal and Russ. Life began to take on a routine. Even in disaster, Nate had noticed, people like sameness. Thus he mandated that everyone go to bed at dark. They whined, but complied each night. There was little to do. Until some sense of sanity had returned outside, Nate said, nobody would leave. They watched TV, the one local station and the few they could pick up on the satellite. For local news, since broadcasting was sporadic, they taped hours on end on the VCR then fast-forwarded the static looking for news. On Sunday, they crowded around to watch replayed scenes of the first Red Cross relocation camp being set up just east of Denver. In windchills of zero, bundled up families raised their own tents, their dogs barking underfoot. The churches and schools initially suggested as shelters had spilled over. The army had supplied tents, but nobody to erect them. Most of the refugees would have been warmer sleeping in their own homes, but those interviewed said they feared for their safety. Gangs had gone on looting and shooting sprees, and a number of houses and apartment buildings had blown up as the natural gas supply puffed sporadically. Nate commented that they'd have been fine if they didn't try Stupid People Tricks like burning the gas as it came right out of the pipe. But few people knew exactly what to do to keep warm when the electric blowers on their furnaces had no power to move the hot air around their house. Eventually Public Service shut off the gas, but still many people panicked, not understanding that their own houses were in no danger of blowing up. Most businesses failed to open on Monday. Workers simply didn't report to work. The extended holiday feeling persisted. People interviewed, as well as Nate's guests, shrugged it off. "It's just like those future movies, where it's dreary all the time, and people burn trash to keep warm," one grinning fellow said on a weak signal from Minneapolis, where he warmed his mittened hands against a bonfire in a trash barrel while light snow fell around him. Indeed, the weather in eastern Colorado was cheerless too, though typical of January. Thin dirty clouds blocked the sun, draining the sky to a weak gruel color. Nate felt the same way. Amber's leaving had drained his fortitude. Where had she gone? Why hadn't she left a note? His guilt gnawed at him that she'd wanted to tell him that night, but he'd stupidly not listened. Perhaps she was at her apartment. But he couldn't go after her. He'd laid down the law to everyone about leaving; he could hardly be the first to go. Their enclave would be crushed like a cigarette butt if people left and told others about their supplies. Damn it! Their relationship might have been more like two adjacent chunks of spent charcoal in an ash pit than a roaring fire, but at least every now and then her mere nearness filled him with a glowing red warmth. And the not knowing—had she run from him, or to someone else? Or did she have another, altogether killer reason he'd just been too stubborn to listen to? Monday crept along indistinguishable from Sunday. Nate's guests ate his food and drank his beer and oooh'd and ahhh'd at the poor schmucks who had to stay in the relief camps. Lenny, groused the loudest. Why wouldn't Nate pop open the 'good stuff,' presumably meaning the rest of the beer and pretzels. Nate told him to cool it, in increasingly hostile tones, until he finally shut up and walked away muttering. After noon the wind began rising from the north, and the barometer continued to drop. January storms in Colorado produced, at best, a sort of light snow, as if the moisture had been wrung out of it; but they did nothing to raise anyone's spirits. "Stock show weather" people called it, after Denver's annual gathering of bulls and horses and cowboys. Somehow he doubted there'd be a stock show this year. Nate tried the phone again. Still dead. He slammed it down. He'd planned for this. If someone wasn't here, even Amber, even if he knew for a fact they were in trouble, which he didn't in this case—but even if he did, he was to absolutely not go looking for them. Fuck the plan, Nate thought. He grabbed his coat.


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