“At once. Snow and cold weather help, because we’ll find very low runoff levels. But we’d better not be down there when the thaw starts.”
“Not a chance.” Seth touched the stove, snarled, and pulled his finger away. “Gotta cool this sucker off in the snow. Don’t worry none about the thaw. Before that happens we’ll be there and thaw old Ollie. He’ll tell us what to do about the telomods, and we’ll be back in business.”
Not a word about whether or not old Ollie would choose to cooperate, Art thought as he muffled himself up to go outside. Would they be able to find the man, even if they reached the syncope facility? How do you find one convicted criminal among umpteen thousand others? What did Guest look like, even before he went into judicial sleep?
Art didn’t recall the media pictures. A murderer could look like anyone.
Even Seth Parsigian.
They faced tough decisions before they left the Treasure Inn. There would be no tractor, no motorbike. Everything had to be carried on foot for an undefined distance.
Even the little stove was too much of a luxury. So was alcohol — a food of sorts, but not a nutritious one. Blankets and pillows were not heavy, but they were bulky.
The final list almost defined itself. Clothes, as many as you could stand to wear or to carry in a single bag. One thick blanket each. Food, but only in its most compact form: dried rice, ham, bread, cheese, and dried beans. Weapons, just in case.
At the last moment Art added a compass, candles, and the maps to his own load. He was sure to need light at some point, and the maps could fold to fit easily into his pocket along with his knife. As he packed away the first one, he noticed Seth Parsigian holding the map that showed on it the marked location of Art’s house in Catoctin Mountain Park. Seth had handed it casually to Art, but the look on his face was more calculating than casual.
Dana and Seth had their own small group of “luxury” items. In her case it was soap, a hairbrush, and the long wrench she had used to break into the Institute. Seth had his hunting knife, pliers, and a flashlight that produced electricity not from batteries but by turning a hand crank to drive a generator.
A child’s toy last Christmas — but not today. Seth used the flashlight to guide their way down the ladder and into the storm drain. Art looked carefully around. He saw debris left by recent high waters, but the level had receded a long way and the walkways were dry.
“This is better than I expected. It shouldn’t be too difficult, all we need to do is follow the incline. Flat and down are all right, but we avoid any upward slopes.”
Seth nodded and led the way. The storm drain tunnel was clammy and icy cold, but since they were all wearing extra clothes that was not a problem. After the first hundred yards Art dropped a few steps behind the other two. His knee was feeling pretty good, but he didn’t know how far he might have to walk on it. He would prefer an even, steady pace, and no wasted steps. Whoever was in front had to make occasional side trips, when neither the compass nor the direction of water flow made the choice of branch clear.
Seth didn’t seem to mind being asked to lead. The storm drain tunnels added a strange booming echo off walls and ceiling, and after half a mile he began to sing as he walked. It was a dirge about two people called Saunders and Margaret, and the verse went on and on.
“That’s Clerk Saunders he’s singing.” Dana had dropped back to walk just in front of Art. The path was not wide enough for two, and she had to turn her head to talk to him. The tunnel was not totally dark even without the flashlight, since every thirty yards or so the narrow grille of a storm drain, blocked by snow, admitted a diffuse, pearly light.
“It’s a Scots/English border ballad,” she went on. “All death and misery. First time I ever heard it with a West Virginia accent. I’ve never known Seth to sing before, either. He must be feeling good.”
“Look where you’re going,” Art said gruffly, “or you’ll be in the water.” He was ashamed to say what he was actually thinking. The world had gone to hell, but he was feeling good. Better than when he left Catoctin Mountain Park.
“I’ll give you a thought that should make us all cheer.” Dana ignored Art’s warning and again turned back to face him. “There are two and a half million lawyers in this country. What do you think they’re doing now?”
“Trying to survive, like everyone else.” Art wasn’t sure she wanted an actual answer from him.
“Sure, but doing what? Nobody will be getting divorced, or arguing over a will, or ready to pay a lobbyist. Where my sister lives the economy has gone mostly to barter — food for clothes, fuel for the use of an old car. Lawyers don’t actually do anything, so they have nothing to barter.”
“You don’t like lawyers?”
“I hate the sons of bitches.” Dana sounded remarkably cheerful. “One of them sued on behalf of my sister, and she won. And you know what? His fee took every cent of the whole settlement.”
“You’ve never dated a lawyer, then? I’d think they’d be buzzing around you, like flies round — well, like — bees.”
“That’s not what you were going to say, is it?” The path had widened, and she dropped back to Art’s side. “Just as well you didn’t stay with your first thought, or it’s you who’d be in that water.”
“I spend a lot of my time with men.”
“Oh, yes? What’s that mean? That you think it gives you an excuse for crude, sexist remarks?”
“No.” Art wondered how he had got into this. He said doggedly, “I was just trying to point out that someone as attractive as you must get offers to take you out all the time, and a lot of those men would probably be lawyers. They’re keen on trophy dates and trophy wives, women they can show off in public.”
“I have dated lawyers,” Dana said airily. “Three of them. They’re the ones I hate the most. The bastards.” She eased her way around a tall concrete pillar that narrowed the walkway, ducked to allow for the lower ceiling, and waited until Art had done the same. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”
“You could have fooled me. You were the one started on lawyers.”
“I know. I was just feeling uppity. Must be the ambience. If I could carry a tune, I’d be singing, too. But I wanted to ask if you signed some sort of release document before you started the telomod treatment.”
“I certainly did. A release from everything, so far as I could tell. I could be killed, ground up, and sold as cat food and the Institute wouldn’t be held responsible.”
“The same as mine. But do you remember any particular side effects of the treatment that they warned about?”
“They had a long list of possibles. Plain and fancy cancers, in addition to the one that brought me to the program. Nausea, bleeding, fits, fainting, headaches, seizures, liver failure, kidney problems.” Art shrugged.
“You name it. The list went on and on. I never had any of them.”
“Do you remember anything—” Dana halted on the walkway, so that Art had to stop, too. “Look, Art, don’t laugh at me, even if this sounds totally crazy. But did anyone or anything ever mention a side effect that could make you feel totally wonderful?”
“I don’t remember one.” Art gestured ahead, to where Seth was walking on steadily, farther and farther in front of them. He took her hand and pulled her forward with him. “We were told that if things went well we might have a normal life expectancy, even one beyond the normal. If we were lucky, we might see some rejuvenation effects, too.”
“That’s my point! I’m not just feeling better, I’m feeling great, the way I haven’t felt for thirty years. I’m like a kid. I wake up, and the whole day spreads out before me. Even in the middle of this disaster, I look forward to things. And you, Art. You look ten years younger than the first time I met you. You’re acting it, too. Don’t you feel younger?”