I think it would give me a heart attack if I tried.
He was dirty and soaked with sweat and no doubt smelled even worse than the drainage tunnel they were crawling through.
This was no time to try Superman stunts.
"Then maybe the next time we come to a place we can stand up, we should rip up a blanket and make padding for our knees and elbows," Terri suggested. "The book said that otherwise we'd be hamburger in no time. I'm paraphrasing, of course."
A long line of mumbled "uh-huhs," broke out behind Snog.
She had a good point, and though he hated to sacrifice a blanket, he figured they'd better do it.
"Look," Professor Clark said, "we can't crawl all the way to Maine. Even if these tunnels do connect for that distance. Does anybody even know where we are?"
He sounded pretty testy, not that Snog could blame him. The guy was at least fifty and pretty near filled the tunnel they were crawling through. Still, Snog was glad to have recruited him.
Clark was a professor of engineering; that would come in handy.
Leanne Chu, somewhere behind Clark, was a professor of chemistry. They'd also picked up fifteen other students who were willing to take a chance on the sewers. Snog was glad to have all of them along.
He felt the weight of responsibility already and it made him aware of things they lacked. He kept thinking they needed rope for some reason. Terri had raided the Evian machine and had made each of them take as many bottles of water as they could carry. It was already apparent that they might not have enough.
There were three handguns and six boxes of ammunition in his backpack; Snog figured that if the others knew about them, they'd freak. Especially the professors. But it was the one thing John had insisted on. "Whatever else you take with you," he'd said, "be sure and have a weapon. 'Cause if you meet up with someone who has one and you don't, you're dead meat."
Better safe than sorry, Snog had figured. His family had always owned guns, so he saw them as tools and not icons of evil like the rest of his college friends seemed to.
Of course, it is a shame that they're available to nuts and criminals as though they were lollipops. But in this situation he was glad to have them. He'd have been even gladder to have some explosives and maybe an antitank launcher.
Finally they came to a place where they could stand up; three drainage tunnels met in a round concrete silo-type arrangement.
The floor was dirt over concrete; deep, sticky black mud, in fact.
He tried not to think what had crawled in and died in it, because he could plainly smell something had—fairly recently, if the molecules were getting through his shock-stunned sinuses.
Carl, Yam, and Brad hoisted him up to where he could look around, wobbling as he stood on their linked hands. He pried the heavy cover up, wincing as the rusty edges cut into his sore palms, and looked out the crack.
"We're out of the city," he said. "It looks like an old suburban development—big yards."
There was a general sigh of relief.
"I'm not seeing any vehicles from here," he said. There were chuckles of pleasure at that. "Just trees, roads, and the odd roof."
"Can you see where we are?" Dr. Clark asked.
"No, sir. I'll have to get out and take a look around."
It was not going to be easy. The manhole cover must weigh seventy pounds or more. Necessary, he supposed: how else were they going to keep enterprising young men, such as himself, from messing around with them otherwise?
With his friends propping him up, he braced his feet and hands against the sides of the hole and lifted with his back, straining upward as hard as he could. Just as he was about to give up, he felt it move, grating in its groove, a small shower of sand and gravel poured over his helpers, causing them to splutter and curse. Finally he managed to work it over to one side, and it fell with a dull clunk.
As he stood on his friends' shoulders, panting, he braced his hands on the rim and looked around.
Uh-oh. It hit him like a pail of ice water. I've forgotten the machines.
Any number of them could have crept up on him while he was struggling. His knees went weak for a moment.
"Hey!" Carl protested as Snog's weight shifted. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna take a look around." Snog hoisted himself out of the manhole and scurried toward some bushes in front of a house. There was a dog lying in the driveway; dead, but not run over, just limp, with its eyes dry and its tongue lying on the pavement in a puddle of vomit.
"Lemme up," Brad said. "I'll go with him."
When they'd hoisted him up, Carl muttered, "We should have let him go first; he doesn't weigh anything."
Yam grunted in agreement.
"It looks clear," Snog said quietly. "Why don't we try to walk for a bit? If things get hairy we can always drop back into the drains."
The others agreed enthusiastically, and within a few minutes everyone was stretching and looking around.
"We're not that far from the city," Dr. Chu said, looking back toward Boston, where the midtown towers were small with distance, but quite visible.
"Maybe Newton," Terri agreed.
"Still," Snog protested, "considering how we got here, it's quite an accomplishment. We came miles underground."
"But where are we going?" someone asked. "If you're right about the bombs, we've got to get out of Massachusetts. Hell, right out of New England."
"My family has a place just over the border in Quebec," Snog said. "It's wilderness. We should be safe there. It's got all sorts of supplies—stocked for the winter. Sort of a hunting lodge thing."
For a wonder, nobody sneered at him for coming from a family that killed Bambi, rather than buying pieces of mysteriously deceased cow at the supermarket.
"You're right," Dr. Clark said, slapping Snog on the shoulder.
"But what we really need now is some form of transportation."
The others looked at one another uneasily. Cars are out, that's certain, Snog thought. He was glad nobody suggested it: maybe he'd lucked out, and everyone here would be a survivor type.
"Yeah," Yam said thoughtfully. "Something we can take off-road, like a dirt bike."
"Or a mountain bike," someone else said.
"Yeah, that'd be perfect," Terri agreed. "Then we wouldn't have to worry about gas."
Snog nodded. "So we'll keep our eyes open. Meanwhile, we'd better get moving." He checked his compass. "North is that way.
Everyone keep as far back from the road as possible. We'll go through backyards as much as we can, okay?"
Everyone nodded and they started off. It was eerily silent; except for the occasional, distant sound of an automobile engine, even the birds were quiet.
"Where is everybody?" Dr. Chu asked.
No one answered, no one even wanted to think about answers.
NATIONAL COMMAND CENTER, WESTERN
MARYLAND
"Air Force One has been lost," the general said, his heavy face grave. "We're forced to conclude that there are no survivors…
Mr. President."
The vice president said nothing for a long moment. He'd wanted to be president; for that matter, he'd planned to run in the next election when the current idiotic incumbent was out of the way. But not like this. He looked at the general, noting the slight sheen of sweat on the man's face. "There's more," he said.
"Yes, sir," the general agreed; something flickered over his features, a faint air of I told you so. "We've lost communications.
We're cut off."
" We're cut off," the new president said in disbelief. "I was led to believe that was impossible."
"So was I, sir. It was impossible until we routed all our communications through—"
"I believe you called it a 'point failure source' during the discussions, General. Yes, go on."
The general paused, then looked the president in the eye.
"We've also lost life support. We've reconnected the supply of canned oxygen, but the recirculatio
n systems are all down."
The president raised an eyebrow.
"We have about twelve hours' worth of air, sir."
"Then why don't we leave?" the new president asked in exasperation. What kind of a Mickey Mouse setup is this anyway?
"The elevators aren't running, sir. The ventilation ducts and blast baffles have all closed down, and we can't get the hatchway motors to respond—those baffles are twenty-four-inch armor plate, sir, originally from scrapped battleships. The chemicals for the scrubbing system have been vented to the outside by the computers that controlled life support. And the stairway was sabotaged."
"Sabotaged, how?" the president bit off.
"Explosive charges were set at several levels, sir. Essentially the stairs are gone. Buried under tons of rubble and twisted steel. We have engineering parties working on it, but excavation would take weeks with the tools available. Even if there weren't unused explosive charges still set, which there are, and more blast doors at every level, which there are."
After a few false starts the president managed to ask: "So how do we get out of here?"
"Even if we could get out of the bunker complex, Mr.
President, we have every reason to believe that within half an hour the entire East Coast will be a nuclear furnace. There's nowhere to go, sir."
President of Cinderland for twelve hours. I guess I can stop feeling guilty about surviving. "I don't suppose I'm dreaming this?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"What should we do?"
"Sir, I intend to visit the chaplain. It's been a long while since I went to confession."
ALASKA
John hissed in frustration. He'd finished his list of contacts early and Sarah had put him to breaking into Skynet's communications, but the damn thing was so fast he just couldn't seem to get through. Snog or Carl or any of those guys could do this in their sleep, he thought bitterly.
There was plenty of equipment; they'd installed the best.
Unfortunately their experts were running for their lives from homicidal hedge cutters and ice cream trucks, and so were unavailable. Suddenly it occurred to him that what he needed was a computer to do this for him. Which meant creating a program. He sighed and leaned back. It wasn't that he couldn't do it, he could. But his attention was so divided that he didn't think he could do it now.
"Mom," he said.
She looked up, her brow furrowed with concentration.
"We should probably send out that message."
They'd prerecorded and loaded a general warning intended to go out over radio and TV via satellite, but hadn't sent it yet.
Sarah considered his suggestion and flashed a look at Dieter, who paused, then nodded. "Go," she said to John, then went back to work.
John keyed up the program, tapped in the code, and hit enter.
His lips tightened. Every time he did that it reminded him of his fatal mistake. "I feel guilty," he said to no one in particular.
'"Bout what?" Sarah asked, not looking up from her station.
He made a helpless gesture. "Here I am sitting and typing while the world's about to go up in flames. Doesn't seem right that I should be so comfortable."
His mother gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Poor baby. You're not dodging killer cars and berserk bulldozers to escape a soon-to-be-blasted-to-hell city. Don't worry, son. We're all going to see a bellyful of blood and murder before this thing is over.
Enjoy this respite while you can."
"Maybe enjoy isn't quite the right word," Dieter admonished gently. "We are waiting for the end of the world as we know it.
But perhaps we can utilize this time. I've finished my list. Let's brain-storm some contingency plans. Then we'll put our minds to breaking into Skynet's communications system."
"Yes," Sarah agreed, still looking distracted. Then her face changed as if something had occurred to her. She looked at John. "Sorry," she said. "I was a little rough there."
"Not a problem, Mom. I know what you're like when you're working."
Sarah looked puzzled. "What does that mean?"
Dieter laughed.
She glared at him indignantly. "What? What?"
MASSACHUSETTS
Snog, Brad, and Carl hunched down beside a Dumpster and checked the road that curved away before them. They'd left the others resting behind the high stone wall of an apparently empty house. They'd seen an occasional battered body lying in the road or on a sidewalk, but no one looking out a window or creeping through a backyard as they had been.
"I think they've been gassed, all these suburbs," Brad said.
"The animals we saw, you know, the dogs and cats, with the convulsions and vomit…"
"Shouldn't it have gotten us, even down in the drainage tunnels?" Carl asked.
Brad shook his head. "Not if it dissipated before we got here.
Remember, it took us hours to get this far. If these areas were gassed in the early morning, before the commuters were up and around, then this area would have been safe since about eight o'clock."
Snog frowned, considering what Brad had said. "One thing bothers me about that, though."
"What?" Carl asked.
"If this area was pacified by gas attack, I don't see how it could have been done by Skynet. I just can't see a bunch of bombers happening to be loaded with gas canisters, y'know. Not over the U.S. anyway. So who would have done it?"
" Pacified?" Carl muttered.
"Well," Brad said, apparently figuring it out as he spoke, "I don't know what the government had stored ready to turn over to the friggin' computer. So it could have been canisters dropped from an airplane. But I think it's unlikely. For one thing, we haven't run across any empties."
"Sooo, you're suggesting that maybe, if there was a gas attack, that someone, like, hid them and then set them off by remote, or by a timer?" Carl asked.
Brad nodded. "It's a possibility."
Snog looked around the Dumpster, then back at his friends, frowning. "Unfortunately, that indicates a human element."
Brad nodded.
"Well, who the fuck would want to do something like that?"
Carl exploded. "You'd have to be crazy!"
"Some extremist group," Snog said. "Those bastards are crazy. Apparently they aren't technically crazy, they're self-deluded, but that's a distinction that only the shrinks care about. For our purposes, they're loons."
"Which loons, though?" Carl asked.
"Luddites," Brad said, and nodded, as though agreeing with some inner voice.
Snog had always taken Brad's silent conversations with himself for granted. But it occurred to him now that they were all a bit weird. Maybe it's a bit arrogant for us to call anybody else a loon, but if Brad's right, then hell, why not?
"I was reading this article in Time magazine about them,"
Brad said. "Apparently they have an extreme fringe group that thinks humanity should be sterilized in order for the planet to survive."
"That's crazy all right," Carl muttered.
"We could go and look in one of the houses," Brad suggested; they all looked at one another, and the consensus was obvious without anyone speaking; they'd seen enough for a lifetime already this day.
Snog listened to the silence and in the far distance he thought he heard the sound of an ice cream truck making its rounds. It must be one of those coin-operated, automatic types that had come out last summer. It was early for an ice cream truck, only March. His stomach rumbled and a sudden desire for an orange Creamsicle hit him.
What am I thinking? he asked himself. Millions are dying and you want a Creamsicle? "Let's go," he said. There was a strip mall across the street that he wanted to check out.
They approached it from the back because there was more cover there. A man's body lay against the wall, the middle of his body crushed down to about an inch, an uneaten ice cream cone melting on the pavement beside his left hand. Bits and pieces were—
Carl turned and heaved into the bushes. After a m
oment, Brad joined him. Snog moved away from them, determined not to give in to the urge to make it three.
He heard the merry tinkle of the ice cream truck coming closer and the sound made the hair on the back of his neck crawl erect with a prickling sensation. He went to the body and felt in the man's pockets for keys, only to notice there was a bunch in the man's right hand. That meant putting his hand into the pool of what had… leaked… from the body.
Grimly Snog wiped his hand clean on the lower part of the man's pants. Then he grabbed the keys and started to try them on the door. The ice cream truck turned into the parking lot of the strip mall; he could hear the sound of its tires in spite of the loud, tinkly tune. His hands were shaking as he tried key after key.
What's with this guy? Fifty keys?
"Shit!" Snog muttered softly. "Shit, shit, shit!"
The others came and crowded close to him, their eyes wide as they looked anxiously to the end of the row where the ice cream truck slowly approached. Gravel crunched.
Carl snatched the keys from Snog's hand and without hesitation fitted one into the lock. They rushed inside and quietly closed the door behind them.
"How did you know which one to use?" Snog whispered.
Carl held up the key. It bore a label that said store.
Snog looked at Brad and the two of them broke up, laughing hysterically as Carl kept saying, "Shhhh! Shhhh!" He slapped Brad and both he and Snog gasped in shock and stared at him.
Then they heard it. The truck's tires made crunching sounds as it approached.
Carl's lips formed the words, "The body."
The truck sped up and from the sound scraped its length along the side of the building. A soft, wet sound interrupted the screeching of metal against stucco. Then the truck backed up, went forward, backed up, all the while playing its mindlessly merry tune. Snog broke for the front of the store and was sick to his stomach behind the counter. Pale-faced, Brad and Carl followed him, silently crouching down beside him.
"Shit!" Snog swore passionately, half in tears. " Shit!"
Brad patted his shoulder. They sat quietly until the ice cream truck went away. Then they sat for a while longer. Slowly Snog became aware of what he was looking at. Dangling from the ceiling and ranged along the walls was a colorful herd of mountain bikes. Farther into the store there was camping equipment, tents, blankets, cooking supplies, down jackets, the whole magilla.
The Future War t2-3 Page 6