"James Maxey - To the East, A Bright Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxey James)

dropped the water into his boat. He steadied himself, turned around, held his hands
over his head, then flipped backward. He landed on his feet in the center of the
aluminum skiff, his arms stretched for balance as the craft gently rocked.
тАЬSo what do you think, Pop?тАЭ he asked, imagining his father had been
watching.
Tony knew exactly what Pop would think.
тАЬThe bit with the boat, just a gimmick,тАЭ Tony answered, his voice taking on a
touch of an Italian accent. тАЬAnd the back flip ... sloppy. The people want form.тАЭ
тАЬWhatever,тАЭ Tony said, his voice once more his own. The old bastard never
had a kind word for him. Or even a truthful one. Last year heтАЩd met up with Pete
Pyro the Fire King over at the Dixie.
тАЬGod Hell,тАЭ Pete had stammered when he finally recognized him. тАЬRico told
me youтАЩd gone and died of AIDS, Tony.тАЭ
Which had indicated to Tony that his father wasnтАЩt open to the idea of
eventual reconciliation. But what the hell. There are only so many days in a life. You
canтАЩt get around to everything.
Tony untied the rope and pushed the boat away from the house. Taking up
oars, he maneuvered through the submerged streets. The sun beat down with a
terrible force. It was two hours before sunset. Normally, he never went out during
the day. When it wasnтАЩt raining, it could reach higher than the old dial thermometer
back at the house could measure, and it had marks to one hundred ten. But the
whole show ended only an hour after dark, and it would take a little while to reach
the old Dixie Hotel, the tallest building still standing downtown. From its roof, heтАЩd
be maybe sixty feet higher than he would have been back at his house. Not much,
but there was something in him which still craved heights. The higher he could get,
the better the show.
Except for the splash and creak of oars, the world was silent. It had been
almost a year since heтАЩd seen a bird, three weeks since heтАЩd had to hide from a
helicopter, and six days since the Wolfman had changed his mind and headed west.
HeтАЩd gone in search of the government shelter near Black Mountain, with
hydroponic gardens, nuclear power, the works.
тАЬI hear if you put all them tunnels end to end, they cover four hundred miles,тАЭ
the Wolfman had said. тАЬThereтАЩs room for one more.тАЭ
Tony shook his head. At best there were cold little cages for crazy people, or
cripples, or junkies. The Wolfman was a little of all three. Tony missed him.
Ahead loomed the islands of rubble that marked the downtown. Rusted steel
beams were tangled together in great heaps, and mirrored glass gleamed beneath the
surface of the sea. The Dixie rose above all this, six stories of old red brick that had
somehow survived the quakes, the flooding, and the terrible unending heat. A month
ago, the Dixie had been a noisy place, a Mecca for those left behind by accident or
choice. He and the Wolfman had come here often. TheyтАЩd survived the last few
years by scavenging, and the Dixie had been a place to trade canned goods and
batteries for booze and fresh vegetables. Some old geezer named Doc had filled the
upper floors of the Dixie with potted plants, and his horticultural prowess provided
garden goodies all year round. Also, Doc had rigged up a distillery for fresh water,
plus another for booze. HeтАЩd been king of his little world, one of the last bastions of
the good life, while it lasted.
A month ago the helicopters had come and taken everyone, whether they
wanted to go or not. TheyтАЩd smashed the stills and tossed plants into the ocean and
Tony still couldnтАЩt see the sense in it. He and the Wolfman had steered clear of the