Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

The other worrying factor was Ed. He kept his rifle by his side all the time, even when they were eating dinner. Art didn’t ask, but he was willing to bet that the safety catch was not on.

The women were making a deliberate attempt to cheer everybody up. Helen said, “Why, now that you two are here I can give six-person dinner parties, something I’ve wanted to do for years. I’d have done it tonight if I’d known.”

“Anne-Marie’s up in Lantz with her cousin,” Joe said. “We’ll do it next week.”

The assumption was clear: Art had Dana with him, so there was no possible reason why he would ever want to go back “down there” as Helen put it, with a strong suggestion that Route I-270 led a traveler to the gates of hell. Or to Washington, which in her view was not much different.

“We won’t be here,” Art said. “Not next week.”

“Why ever not?”

“We have things to do. I promised to give a personal report.” He did not add “to the President,” but went on, “And I think those two idlers” — he pointed to Joe and Ed — “ought to go with us.”

“What the hell for?” Joe asked. “They’re all rogues down there.”

“And you’re not? You’re missing the point. Did you ever fly a C-5A?”

“Damn right. I could fly one with my eyes closed. A lovely plane, they don’t make anything like that these days.”

“Did you know that they’re in regular use again, because none of the new equipment works anymore? I think one of them has been converted to become Air Force One. With your background, you could probably get a job as a pilot tomorrow. And, Dana, tell them about the drivers in Washington.”

She inspected Joe and Ed carefully before she answered. “I’m not sure today’s drivers in D.C. would think you two were old enough to get a license. You look like teenagers compared with most of them.”

“And anybody who can drive without an AVC in the car is in demand,” Art added. “If you can drive a stick shift, or know how to install a carburetor in place of a chip-based fuel injection system—” He stopped. “No, Ed!”

Out of the corner of his eye he had noticed the gun barrel coming up, at the same time as he saw the dark face peering in at the window.

“Don’t shoot, it’s Seth.” He waved, to indicate that Seth should go around to the front door. “How the hell did he know where we were?”

He pulled the door open. “Where’s Guest?”

“He’s safe and sound,” Seth said, and then to Ed, “I’d rather you aimed that thing someplace other than my gut. I’m one of the good guys.”

The rifle was trained squarely on Seth’s navel. Ed lowered it to point at the floor. “Pardon me. You just don’t look like one of the good guys.”

Seth’s clothes and face were filthy, and mud coated his legs up past the knees. “That’s ’cause I’ve been far-tin’ an’ fandango-in’ around this place looking for you all. It don’t help none that it’s startin’ to rain out there. I didn’t see the light from this window ’til three minutes back. See, I could tell that Art had been in his house today, but he didn’t leave no word where he was goin’ when he left.”

“We didn’t want your friend Oliver dropping in.” Joe took one good look at Seth and poured not the wine he had paid money for, but a big shot of Ed’s moonshine. “Here.”

Seth took the glass, drained it in one gulp, and rolled his eyes. “Jeez. That don’t take prisoners, do it? Look, the main thing is, Guest came up with what we need.”

“The treatment?” Dana asked.

“You got it. We’ll be able to keep goin’ with the telomods. He worked up a wet chemistry method, and the test kits are in the car we came here in. He still hasn’t told me how to use any of this stuff, an’ I’m sure that’s gonna be his big bargainin’ chip. So the sooner we get back over to your house—”

“Hold it,” Ed interrupted in a strange, hoarse voice. He had been looking not at Seth in the doorway, but past him. “What’s that?”

He and Art crowded Seth backward. “That’s my house!” Art shouted. “It’s on fire.”

“An’ Guest’s inside — tied to the bed, he can’t get out.” Seth started as though he was going to run, then swung around. “You got a car or anythin’, ready to go? Otherwise, he’s a goner.”

“The tractor.” Ed turned as flames from the burning house roared to double their height. “In the barn — but it only carries one, and it’s not fast.”

“Forget it.” Seth was already on the move. “Come on.”

The fire was a beacon to draw them on, but it did nothing to light up the muddy road. Seth moved out ahead, with Dana not far behind. Art decided that if he was ever going to ruin his knee completely, this was the time. He ran full tilt along the dark path. Rain made the mud more than usually treacherous, but he had walked this way a hundred times. He had the advantage of knowing the twists and turns. By the time they reached the house he had passed Dana and was only a few yards behind Seth.

They skidded to a halt twenty yards short of the building. Orange flames were shooting from the roof and licking out of two of the windows. Art could feel the heat on his face.

“We can’t go in there,” he said. “We can’t do anything.”

Seth shook his head and ran forward. He got to within ten feet of the front door when a cloud of red-hot sparks gushed out over the transom. He turned and came reeling back, gasping for air.

The heat from the burning house was increasing. Raindrops turned to puffs of steam as they hit the slate roof. “The tank,” Art cried. “The propane will blow. We have to get away.”

He took Dana by the arm and started along the road. Joe, Ed, and Helen were approaching. He waved them away! As he did so Dana pulled free from his grasp and turned back.

“Come on, Seth,” she cried. “You can’t do anything.”

Seth had not run. He was a dark figure against the burning house. Flames were spewing out of the walls. As the front door cracked and burst open, Seth shook his head and ran to the car. There was no place to turn it without driving closer to the house. Art heard the engine race, then the car came zooming crazily backward, almost hit Dana, and veered at the last moment into a thicket of rhododendrons.

Art ran across to yank open the driver’s door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Seth was panting, leaning over, pulling at something in the rear compartment. He emerged with his arms full of boxes and a batch of papers.

“The telomod kits.” He nodded toward the load of boxes. “I told you, we left them in the car. It was too close to the house. But this should be far enough—”

The explosion was a vivid flash of red and white. The sound was a flat, heavy thump. Moments later, burning debris from the house showered all around them. Art cowered back, shielding his face with his forearm. Seth dropped the papers that he was holding. A blast of hot air blew them along the ground. Dana, standing farther back, dived and managed to trap them on the muddy ground.

Art stared at the ruin of his house. The front wall tilted inward at a crazy angle. The chimney stood intact, but all around it roof slates were cracking in the heat. Each one as it split threw off random sputters of red sparks. Flames poured from the bedroom window, and the whole structure was beginning to settle. Nothing inside could possibly have survived.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Joe. “Come on. Let’s get back to Ed’s place. Don’t even think of trying to go in there. It’s not worth dying for objects.”

Joe hadn’t heard Seth’s shout before they started running to the burning house. Art turned to him. “You don’t understand, Joe. I’m not worried about my things — I’ve got spares at my house in Olney. But Oliver Guest was inside there.”