by John L. Monk
Greg mumbled something under his breath.
“Hmm?” Sarah said.
“Nothing. Now hold on. I’m gonna work the winch. Try not to throw up, okay?”
Sarah nodded, staring overhead with a worried frown. “You sure about this?”
“A thousand percent,” Greg said, stepping down into the cockpit. “Two thousand percent. Now hang on.”
After sliding the winch into the gear-like slot, he released the catch and freed the halyard. Normally, he could pull up the mainsail with no problem. But a person was a whole lot heavier than a sail, and as he turned it—click, click, click—he quickly found that out. A quarter of the way up and his arms were burning so bad he had to rest.
“Why’d you stop?” Sarah said. “Get me down!”
“Would you relax?” Greg said. He rubbed his arms and hands, getting his blood flowing, then set about hauling her the rest of the way.
By the time she was halfway there, the boat took a decided lean to port—something he hadn’t expected but which made sense in hindsight, with Sarah up there acting as a lever. Meanwhile, the winch felt tighter than ever, and he had to resist the urge to stop again and relax. Last thing he needed was her crying at the top of her lungs and freaking everyone out.
“Get me down!” she screamed anyway.
He turned the winch with new strength born from desperation.
“Keep doing that!” he shouted as she wrapped her legs around the mast.
If she’d been smart enough to do that at the beginning, it would have been so much easier.
“Are you trying to kill her?” Chelsea said, gazing up from the ladder in horror.
“Would you shut up?” Greg said. Couldn’t she see he was trying to concentrate?
When Sarah was as high as she could go, Greg threw the lock and fell back gasping and rubbing his hands. She was leaning way out over the water, and he needed to edge the boat a teensy bit closer so she could step over the metal railing.
“Let me down, you idiot!” Sarah screamed.
“Hold your horses,” he said, though too low to carry. Then—when he was ready—he started the engine.
By now, the rest of the crew were in the cockpit staring up. Chelsea joined Sarah in demanding he bring her down “right now.” Greg ignored that and edged the boat closer to the bridge.
“Guys, get over to starboard,” he said. When they all moved to port, he added, “Your other starboard.”
With the added weight, the boat righted itself and Sarah easily managed to hook a leg over the rail. From there, she scrambled desperately onto the bridge.
“You’re a goddamned asshole!” she screamed down in rage.
“That’s Captain goddamned asshole, to you,” Greg said, smiling broadly. His plan had actually worked, and they had a straight shot from here to the Smithsonian with no intervening neighborhoods. “Okay, who’s next?”
28
Greg and Andrew took turns winching Tony aloft—mainly because the heavier boy seemed completely incapable of coordinating his arms and legs in such a way as to assist the ascent. Once there, it took him five minutes to build up the courage to clamber onto the bridge, even with Sarah helping.
“Okay, Chelsea,” Greg said when his hands felt strong enough to lift her. Between her and Andrew, she was smaller. “Your turn.”
Chelsea shook her head. “No way. I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Me either,” Andrew said, folding his arms in defiance.
“How come?”
Chelsea told him how come: because it was stupid. Because she was here to fish and go sailing, not risk her life swinging on ropes.
“Besides,” she said, “someone has to watch the boat while you’re away. I mean, what if someone cuts the rope … thing … whatever you call it? The boat will float away.”
She had a point. Someone definitely needed to guard the Banshee.
“So, what’s your excuse?” Greg said to Andrew.
Andrew’s face had been sickly pale all morning, though he offered up a weak smile. “I’ll be watching Chelsea.”
Greg snorted. “I bet. All right, help me get up there.”
Greg’s ascent was the easiest yet because he used his arms and legs the whole way. In a moment of clarity, he realized his friends’ cowardice had solved a problem for him. No way could all of them have come, not unless one was an athlete and could climb hand-over-hand without help.
After he was safely on the bridge, Greg called down, “Hook our supplies together and send them up.”
After retrieving their backpacks and guns, Greg tied the boat to the bridge. They’d be back later that day, he told them. Tomorrow, tops. Either way, they shouldn’t worry.
“If something happens and you need to leave,” Greg said, “cut the halyard and use the motor. We’ll find a boat and meet you at the last marina we stayed. Got it?”
They groused something fierce about how bored they’d be, but they got it.
With a final wave at friends left behind, Greg, Tony, and Sarah set off across the bridge to D.C. in search of ancient treasure.
Seeing the former nation’s capital from the ground was more impressive than on those rare occasions he’d been there with his parents. The buildings towered more enormously, and the statues were extra impressive because he could actually look at them for more than ten seconds at a time. But the place was a tomb, like every other place, and the sadness he’d lain to rest a thousand times returned like a habit he couldn’t shake.
The streets were completely free of cars, as if by decree. Which, Greg thought, was likely what had happened as the Sickness raged across the country. Like everywhere else, there were also roadblocks. These, however, were made by professionals, constructed with sandbags and barbed wire and tall, metal barricades. To get around them, the friends broke into buildings in search of emergency exits that dumped onto streets tangential to the ones they wanted. From there, they could work their way back. Slow going, but it was progress, and Greg congratulated himself again on his plan to bring them as close to the National Mall as possible rather than risk passage through strange neighborhoods.
“Thought maybe we’d see people by now,” Tony said as they exited through the rear of a one-hour photo shop.
“Cities usually don’t have wood fireplaces,” Sarah said. “Maybe they froze to death.”
Tony shook his head. “Prolly left. Nobody would stay and freeze like that.”
“Cities also don’t have cows and grain silos,” she said. “But I did see some deer by the water.”
“Kids here probably don’t know how to shoot,” Tony said. “No guns allowed in D.C.”
Sarah laughed. “You never watched the news, did you? Everyone here had guns.”
Tony said, “You mean drug dealers. Kind of hard to shoot deer with a pistol. Soon as you miss, they run off. If anyone stayed, I bet they’re probably fishing.”
“City kids?”
With special exceptions for Jack and the twins, the kids from Front Royal didn’t think much of anyone from the more populated Northern Virginia area.
“Greg and me are city kids,” Tony said. “We did okay.”
Greg ignored the obvious ploy to drag him into it and instead consulted his map. Around the next block and to the right was a direct shot to the lower end of the Mall. Provided they weren’t forced to detour again, they’d be there in a few minutes.
“Holy cow,” Tony said when they turned the corner. “Would you look at that?”
“Oh, wow,” Sarah said.
Greg gulped. Squatting in the middle of the road facing them was an actual military tank. Behind it was another roadblock, this one with actual machine guns pointing down from it. Big ones, too.
“I call the tank!” Tony shouted. “Mine!”
Sarah gaped at him like he was nuts. “Who the heck wants a tank?”
“Don’t matter who wants it, ’cause I called it.”
“Guys, shut up a minute,” Greg said, stari
ng at the quiet street. No bullet holes perforated the road or the buildings. No bodies either, thank goodness. If the government thought it had to protect the capital from invaders, those invaders had never come.
Greg unslung his rifle and the others did too. By unspoken agreement, they approached the tank at an angle out of the line of fire of the enormous canon. When they got close enough, Tony reached out and touched one of the metal tracks.
“Cool,” he said, rubbing his hand along it before reaching up to touch the armor shell. “Wonder if it runs.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Greg said. “Treasure, remember? Besides, it probably gets like a mile a gallon.”
“Still,” Tony said, gazing lovingly at it.
“How we getting over the wall?” Sarah said.
Greg tore his gaze away. This was definitely the way they had to go if they wanted to get to the Smithsonian, but they were fresh out of detours. However, unlike those other streets, this street had a tank.
“Follow me,” he said, and started climbing.
“Hey,” Tony said, “get off my tank!”
“You’re the one getting off on it,” Greg said.
Sarah said, “Careful—there’s barbed wire!”
“Women,” Greg said, shaking his head. He gazed at the barrier with a considering eye and scratched his hairless chin in thought. After milking it enough, he removed his backpack and pulled out his multi-tool, which had wire cutters. The razor wire rested about four feet higher than the tank, which had been backed up to within a few feet of the wall. A little awkward, but still doable if he held the wall with one hand while cutting with his right. The wire was hard and sort of thick, but no match for the cutters. A minute’s work and it sprang wide open, exposing a hole large enough for them to climb through.
“Could have blasted through with the tank,” Tony said, “but this’ll do. Help me up.”
Greg helped Sarah first, and blushed when she smiled at him. Then he helped Tony, grimacing at the extra effort required. Tony immediately went over to try the hatch, then swore in frustration.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Of course it’s locked,” Greg said. “You think they want civilians jumping in? That’d be pretty dumb.”
“Your face is pretty dumb,” Tony said. “Guess we gotta climb again.”
“You guessed right.”
Tony barely made it over the wall. There was a platform on the other side—for standing on while shooting at crowds, Greg figured. Beyond the wall, tents and military trucks seemed to go on forever. The government’s presence here stood out in stark contrast to everywhere else.
“There’s a body,” Sarah said, pointing at a prone form on the ground. “And another over there.”
“Kinda weird, out in the street like that,” Tony said.
“They were on duty, that’s why,” Greg said. He’d spotted another body but didn’t mention it. “Come on.”
They climbed down a military green ladder and worked their way past the nearby tents and vehicles. The bodies they saw had been chewed up pretty bad by rats or other animals and were hard to look at.
“Over here,” Tony said, holding up a rusty rifle. Some sort of carbine, like their ARs, only a bit longer. “Bet you it’s a machine gun.”
Greg snorted. “Bet it’ll blow up in your hand. It’s all rusty.”
“Prolly right. I think we should check out the tents.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Sarah said. “Might be some good stuff there.”
Greg said, “Okay, fine. But only for a minute. I wanna get back to the boat as soon as possible. I got a bad feeling about this place.”
Tony laughed and clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
The first tent they tried was a supply tent filled with all manner of gear, much of it interesting if not immediately recognizable. Other stuff was more mundane: buckets, chairs, clothing, bottles of shampoo. Nothing dangerous, like guns or rockets, which Tony had probably been hoping for.
The next tent was filled with bed after bed of dead soldiers. Here, too, the bodies had been savaged by animals and insects. Many of them also seemed to have been shot in the head, based on the splatter marks on pillows and tent walls.
“They didn’t want to suffer,” Sarah said softly.
“Who does?” Tony said, shoving ahead with his shirt over his nose. “Gonna check these lockers.” A minute later he came back. “Can’t without a crowbar.”
“It’s not right to steal from the dead,” Greg said.
Tony rolled his eyes. “How’s it different from scavenging? It’s what we do.”
“It’s just different,” Greg said.
They crossed through an intersection into the wide, long clearing of the National Mall. Several helicopters were parked along its length, as well as more tents, and more tanks and military vehicles, many with machine guns mounted on top.
“So, where’s the museum?” Sarah said. “This place is huge.”
“I came here on a school bus,” Tony said, then crossed his arms as if washing his hands of the whole topic.
Sighing, Greg turned around and started back the way they’d come.
Tony said, “Hey—where you going?”
“To find a tourist map,” Greg said without stopping.
29
Planted at the corner of a large intersection was a big map of the Mall showing the location of every museum. Tony insisted the gem room and all the Mayan gold was in the Natural History Museum. Greg, who hadn’t been there since he was little, asked why they kept Mayan gold with the dinosaurs and minerals, and Tony said he didn’t build the place.
“What I do know,” Tony said, “is all these army men were here for a reason. Probably to protect it. I mean, it makes sense, right?”
Sarah shook her head. “To protect gold? This is D.C., you idiot. It’s where the president lives—right down there!” She jabbed her finger on the map with a thump.
Tony’s gaze lingered on the little White House icon. “Wonder if he’s in there.”
“Who?” she said.
“The president.”
After that, the mood grew sad, and nobody said anything until they arrived at the steps of the Natural History Museum. Enormous banners still hung from between the soaring Greek columns—advertisements for various exhibits, including one labeled, THE TITANOSAUR: Earth’s Mightiest Apex Predator!
“See that?” Greg said, pointing at it. “No Mayans.”
“You’re a pessimist, that’s what,” Tony said and stomped up the stairs.
The glass doors to the museum were locked, and not shattered by looters. Which meant everything inside lay untouched and waiting for them.
Tony said, “All right, everybody. Stand back.”
“Dude, don’t be stupid,” Greg said, though he did step back.
“Jesus, Tony,” Sarah said, hurrying away with her hands clamped over her ears.
Tony peered intently through the glass doors, then backed away and aimed his pistol. At the last second—wincing in anticipation of the bang—he turned his head and fired. The blast was especially loud with so much stonework around, and a softball-sized hole appeared where there had once been smooth glass.
“You’re such an asshole,” Sarah said.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Tony said before decocking it.
He knocked the rest of the glass out with the butt of his rifle, then eased himself carefully inside. Greg went next, followed by Sarah. Directly ahead of them stood a security desk with a walkthrough metal detector. Beyond that, an enormous plaster replica of a mastodon dominated the cavernous rotunda. Entrances to different sections shot off in each direction: Mammals to the left, National Fossil Hall to the right, and the Ocean Hall straight ahead.
“I don’t see any Mayan stuff,” Greg said, staring around in wonder. “Still … this place is pretty cool. And hey—no lines!”
“There’s Egyptian stuff upstairs,” Sarah said, nose b
uried in a brochure she’d grabbed from a stand. “Maybe that’s where the gold is.”
“There’s also the gem room,” Tony said. “But gold’s still better.”
“So, let’s get the gold,” Greg said.
They climbed up the long, wide staircase to the second floor and entered an area decorated to look Egyptian. Their footsteps echoed loudly from the marble walls and vaulted ceilings, adding a slightly ominous quality to their trespass. Adorning every surface were mummies and sphinxes and hieroglyphics in brilliant gold and blue ink.
While looking at an exhibit with a mummified cat, Sarah said, “You don’t believe in mummies, do you? You know … that they come to life?”
Greg noted her worried frown and lowered his voice. “Actually, there’s some truth to those legends …”
Sarah swallowed and slipped her hand into his.
Further down, they stopped at a gigantic, mummified bull taking up much of the room.
“Man,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Who would do that to a bull?”
They gazed at it quietly while Sarah read the description. She still hadn’t let go of his hand.
“Look, look!” Tony said a short while later, pointing at a glassed-off exhibit. “Didn’t I tell you? Gold!”
It was gold, alright. A necklace—wrinkly and small, and apparently on loan from another museum that had a lot more stuff from the tomb of Tutankhamun.
Other than some nice photographs of gold, that was the only real gold they saw. The rest was bones and mummies and stone tablets.
“Wow, Tony,” Greg said, unable to resist. “We’re gonna be rich. What should we buy first?”
Tony shook his head. “I told you it was Mayan gold, not mummy gold. Not my fault it ain’t here now.”
“You sure this is even the right museum?” Sarah said. “When did you last see it?”
“On a field trip, I told you. Couple years ago … I think. Pretty sure this was the place …”