“Sure you won’t need this,” Ed had agreed. “So you can just return it when you get back here. Same with the maps. They’re pretty out-of-date, some of ’em, but I still use ’em.” And, as Art stared at Joe, steaming triumphantly uphill on the little tractor, Ed added, “You can bring that back, too. Never forget one thing, Art. Second-class riding beats first-class walking, any day of the week.”
Art couldn’t argue with that. He knew he would never make it on foot, with a bum knee and fifty-odd miles or more to go. The previous day’s experience with Annie’s horses had been less than encouraging. He had spent three hours staring at the rear end of two of them, trying to persuade the horses that his idea of a destination was superior to theirs. A tractor, even a slow and ancient one, was a gift from God.
He slung the waterproof bag of food and supplies over his shoulder, said, “See you, then,” and climbed aboard.
“Watch that clutch when you use reverse,” Joe called as Art began his stately progress down the gravel and dirt road. “Wish we were going with you.”
The funny thing was, he meant it. Radio and television were dead, but as long as power was off everything in the big cities had to be a total disaster. And Joe and Ed, like anyone with an ounce of curiosity, wanted to see the chaos and destruction with their own irrational eyes. Even Art had the urge, though if it weren’t for his need to know about the telomod treatment he’d have made curiosity secondary to safety.
The deep boom of an explosion, far off to his right, brought Art sharply back into the present. It was early evening, beneath sullen skies, and the flash created a bright splash of white in the dusk. He had started soon after midday, and already he was within the thirty-mile ring development zone that girdled Washington. Law enforcement ought to be better here than farther to the north. Based on what he was seeing and hearing, it was worse.
Should he just keep on driving, as long as he could? The tractor had no lights. But if he stopped, where would he sleep? He could drive off the road and stretch out by the tractor, but it was getting chilly and the rain seemed ready to go on all night. One thing for sure: no matter what he did, he was going to feel terrible in the morning.
It could be worse, Ferrand. You could be walking. And it could be even a lot worse than that.
One of the most haunting things that he had ever read was in an old book, The Worst Journey in the World, about Captain Scott’s expedition to the South Pole. The group who made the final run to the Pole were half-starved on the way back, working on difficult terrain, in temperatures twenty to forty degrees below freezing. Scott’s diary entry showed that Evans, a desperately sick member of the party, became comatose one afternoon and died the same evening. That same morning, Evans had been trying to pull a sled.
Why was he pulling? Because he had no choice.
You’re getting old and soft, Ferrand. Here you are, riding in comfort. You have warm clothes and dry feet, and plenty of food. Keep going another few hours, you’ll be at the Treasure Inn having a drink with Dana.
Art wiped raindrops from his face and peered at the road ahead. There was more than enough light to see where he was going. Most of it formed a faint reddish glow, reflecting from the low clouds. With electric power still off, that glow did not come from streetlights. Parts of the city to the south were burning. It was a bad omen for the success of his trip.
The tractor rode easily and quietly on its big balloon tires. At Art’s fuel-conserving speed of six miles an hour, the sound of the engine was muted to a deep purr by its efficient muffler. He found himself drifting; in no danger of falling asleep, but hunched over the wheel, pursuing random thoughts, and allowing the faint gray strip of the road’s shoulder to guide his way.
Minute after silent minute, mile after uneventful mile. The rain was heavier, but the gusty wind had dropped to nothing. The highway was a graveyard of abandoned cars and trucks. Time had frozen, until at last a rattle of gunshots brought Art back to full attention. The shooting didn’t sound close, but it made him realize that he had no idea where he was. The high overhead highway exit signs were unlit, and the lower and perhaps more readable ones sat off by the right-hand lane. His watch had become a useless bracelet on March 14, so he didn’t know how long he had been traveling. His stomach, an unreliable guide, suggested nine o’clock.
He steered over to the slow lane and watched for exit signs. One came into view after another quarter of an hour. He whistled when he was at last close enough to read it. He didn’t need to pull out a map to tell him where he was. It was time to leave the main highway, and he was less than two miles from his destination. He had promised himself a nightcap at the Treasure Inn with Dana Berlitz, a fantasy just to keep him going. Now it seemed like a real possibility.
He took the curved exit ramp and trundled out onto Montrose Road. At the traffic light at Seven Locks he turned south. The signal wasn’t working, and he had yet to meet anyone else on the road.
That changed within two minutes. Traveling in the opposite direction along the road, lights off, a dark car swept up to and past Art almost before he knew it was there. From the glimpse he caught of its elegant lines and long hood, it was a real antique; maybe a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, or perhaps a classic Lagonda touring model, a full century or more old. It was traveling at least seventy miles an hour.
As usual, the very rich would find a way. But now wealth had to be measured by actual possessions, birds in hand. Bank accounts mean nothing when you have lost electronic storage of records.
Much of the missing information would probably never be recovered. Too late to do anything about it, but this could be an excellent time to owe lots of money.
The main highway from the north had seemed odd only because of its emptiness. Seven Locks Road was far more unnerving. This was a rich residential area. To right and left he ought to see the cheerful glow of curtained windows and floodlit driveways. Instead he saw the dark bulk of seven-bedroom ghost-town houses, silent and grim. In places he drove through a rank, rancid odor that the rain could not hide.
But at last, a, hundred yards ahead, stood the Treasure Inn. It was hardly visible from the road. No lit vacancies sign tonight. No lit anything.
Art throttled back to a slow walking pace and eased into the far corner of the parking lot. He turned the engine off and sat still for half a minute, listening. The inn, like everywhere else, was dark and quiet. It might mean that no one was here; or it might mean that someone was here and didn’t want it known.
He slid off the tractor seat and stood for a minute, cursing his knee and stiff joints. As soon as he felt able to walk he set off around the parking lot, moving slowly and cautiously. It seemed deserted, until at the back of the lot he caught sight of a motorbike pushed deep into a thick hedge of forsythia.
He felt the engine. Cold. He crouched low beside the rear wheel, rummaged in his bag for a box of wooden matches, and cautiously lit one. The license tag had expired — really expired. It was for 1996, thirty years ago. But it was a Virginia plate. That was encouraging. To get here he’d have tried to ride anything, including a magic carpet. Dana and the others would be no different.
He stood up slowly, one hand on his stiff knee. Assuming that Dana had arrived on this bike and was at the inn, he still had a problem. How was he going to find her? Shouting her name didn’t seem like a smart idea.
He was still straightening when he felt a hand grip his shoulder from behind. Before he could turn a soft voice said, “Shh. It’s me.”