“All clear,” she called.
Lenny’s door opened; he was in his mountain racing wheelchair. She hadn’t realized how neatly the side bracket would hold a machine pistol.
“Glad you got here when you did,” he said. “They’d brought in the intellectual in the group, and he’d’ve figured something out.”
“I had some help—let me get her,” Heather said. She went back to the apartment, where the young woman still sat, stroking the leg of the dead boy.
“We never got along,” she said. “He was jealous about the time his dad spent with me. I wanted us to get along, but…” She was watching something a thousand miles away. “I guess we’ll never get along now.”
“I’ve got to talk my boyfriend into going to a safe place with me,” Heather said. “He’ll argue, but I’ll win. You should come with us. I think they’ll have room for you there too, and even if they don’t, you’ll still be somewhere safer than this building. Please come along?”
“I’d just be a drag on you.”
“You were a big help, setting off my diversion.”
“Because I could tell you were going to kill those guys and I wanted to help.” In the gathering gloom, Heather couldn’t really see the young woman’s face, just the shadow of her shape. “I was in the closet and I heard them kill Stan and Dennis. I heard Stan begging for Dennis’s life. They killed him anyway.”
“You helped me kill them all.”
“Didn’t bring Stan back. Or Dennis. Look, you guys just go. Please. I’ll just sit here till I think of something.” She turned and curled away.
The sun was going down fast. Heather said, “Just let me make the offer one more time—”
“No.”
Hope I have more luck with Lenny. She turned to go; Lenny was rolling into the apartment. “Stay with us tonight and see what you think in the morning.”
The girl looked up. “You’re the guy they were trying to kill.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry Stan didn’t come over to my place and bring you and Dennis. I asked him to.”
“I know. He said you can’t live in fear.”
“So here’s my thought. Heather and I can’t make it to anywhere safe before nightfall, so we’re stuck here for the night. At least do us the favor of not being out here where we might have to hear someone killing you. Come morning, you can come with us or not.”
“I really don’t like the idea of staying the night here,” Heather said. “I know you’ve got the generator, and your independence, and everything, but—”
“I hate to leave,” Lenny said. “But I like living. Now—come on—I think Stan said your name was Sherry?”
“Yeah.” The young woman stood up, kissed her hand, and pressed it to the dead boy’s leg, and led the way out into the hall.
“I thought you’d argue with me,” Heather said.
“If it was just me, I might, but I keep noticing more and more people risking their lives to accommodate me. We’ve all got to get through this with whatever we’ve got, and I know that everyone will have to help and be helped, but I don’t want to cost anyone anything more than I have to.” He rolled ahead of her and Heather followed him around to the door; she’d wondered how he’d gotten through a hallway blocked with bodies. The answer turned out to be that a mountain racing wheelchair rolls over a corpse as easily as a log. “We’ll want to wipe your wheels when we’re inside,” she said. “You’ve probably picked up some nanoswarm or biotes.”
“Now, there’s my practical girlfriend.”
“I still wish we were moving tonight.”
“Me too, actually. But realistically, it’s over twenty miles to St. Elizabeth’s. And except for the White House, no one’s got a secure car they can risk at night to come up here, and I wouldn’t bet on Shaunsen deciding to rescue us. So I’m guessing we’ll end up going under our own power tomorrow. Better to go at dawn, when the predators are sleeping off looting the liquor stores; we can be most of the way there before anyone notices us.”
He unlocked the door and let them in. When he was on the mat with the door closed behind him, he said, “Bleach and rags under the kitchen sink; could you help me clean the blood off my wheels? I know it’s silly, since I’m leaving so soon, but I hate the thought of staining my carpet.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. SAN DIEGO. CALIFORNIA. 3:30 P.M. PST. WEDNESDAY. OCTOBER 30.
Last night, Carlucci had declared Roth to be a cooperative witness, which meant she could have food, water, and sleep at will. No one had asked her about it; she’d still been passed out from her seizure.
Roth had seemed all right but subdued that morning, so Carlucci had tried a low-key interrogation at ten A.M.; by noon, when they broke for lunch, Roth had repeated, many times, that she wanted to cooperate but she didn’t know much and it felt like something was wrong with her mind.
Hoping a younger woman would have better rapport, they’d sent Bambi Castro in from 1:30 to 3:30, but though Roth was less guarded with her, she really hadn’t extracted any more information. Now, it was Larry Mensche’s turn. Maybe his warm and fatherly personal style would work out differently, but Bambi doubted it. She went to treat herself to fresh coffee; she wondered how long it would be before supplies of that ran out.
In the break room, Carlucci was just filling his cup. “Weird, isn’t it? She keeps saying she wants to help, but did you get anything out of her?”
“No, and it was time to give up. I needed some coffee, because I’m getting tired, and I promised I’d bring back a cup of herbal tea for Roth, because she’s been cooperative. I tried to kid with her and told her it wasn’t real herbal organic, just a plaztatic copy, and she started to cry and said a lot of people around the world need plaztatic copies of real stuff, and she never understood that before, and she’s so sorry. But then after that for fifteen minutes she was like, aphasic. Like after a stroke. It’s like she’s dying of guilt and I would swear to god she wants to confess and spill her guts, but when she tries she goes into brainlock.” Bambi swallowed a deep, warming slug of coffee. “I’m wondering if Daybreak protects itself by not letting them talk?”
“I agree. I can’t tell if she’s lying, too out of it to have a clue, or being blocked from talking. Maybe Mensche’ll be—”
“Trouble!” Bolton yelled from the front door; Bambi and Carlucci ran to see.
About 150 people, looking a little like a parade, a little like a charity walkathon, and a lot like a mob, in jeans and sweatsuits and T-shirts, were coming up the road toward them. “The light’s behind them, so they probably can’t see us through the windows,” Bolton pointed out. “Good thing, too. I count four rifles and three shotguns being waved around; handguns would be anyone’s guess.” He handed his binoculars to Carlucci.
“Hunh. KILL THE BITCH NOW. MEXICANS GET FOOD, CITIZENS GET SCREWED. BREAK DAYBREAK. And TERRORISTS SHOULDN’T GET SHOWERS WHEN TAXPAYERS HAVE NO POWER. At least that last one is sort of clever.”
“Can we stand them off?” Bolton asked.
“Yeah. Most of those guns they have won’t work—some wouldn’t have even before Daybreak. A lot of people don’t clean or maintain their weapons. And they’re not that well-organized. Figure it that half the crowd thinks it’s going to a school board meeting and the other half thinks they’re going to storm the Bastille. But I’d rather not shoot American citizens for being outspoken and stupid—it’s kind of what the country’s all about, you know?”