Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

Art woke rested and curiously at peace. He had slept through the whole night, rare for him in the past few years. It took a few moments to realize that he had been awakened by the disappearance of the warm body next to his.

It was already full day. He turned his head, opened his eyes, and stared blearily at the dark shape outlined against the window.

“You’re a blanket hog, d’you know that?” Dana sounded as lively as he felt comatose. “I had to fight for my share half a dozen times.”

“Sorry.” Art’s throat and mouth felt dry, and his voice was gravelly.

“I bet. But there are worse bedtime sins.”

“Like what?”

“We’ll talk about it some other time. You can stay put for a while if you want, I’m going to boil water.”

“What’s it doing outside?”

“The snow has tapered off, but it’s deep on the ground. It looks cold — colder than it should be this late in the year. I thought the supernova was supposed to make the world hotter?”

“On average. But mainly it screws up the weather.” Art sat up, and felt the well-being that comes with a good night’s sleep. “Instead of west-east patterns the winds seem to be running north-south.”

“Straight from the North Pole.” Dana was fully dressed. “I’ll see you downstairs. We won’t let the weather stop us.”

As she went out Art pushed back the bedclothes and stood up. His knee gave hardly a twinge when he put his weight on it. There was the real answer to arthritis: find a beautiful woman and use her as your warming pad.

He and Dana hadn’t said a word since last night about Oliver Guest, but her comment as she left confirmed his own thoughts. They were going to take the risk. They would try to reach the Facility for Extended Syncope and wake up a multiple murderer — who also happened to be a telomod expert.

When and how would they go, and what would they do if they got there? Those were separate questions, to be answered later.

Seth Parsigian was already working the little stove when Art arrived downstairs. He must have been down to the basement and recharged it from the propane tanks. He was astonishingly grubby, but very alert. Maybe Dana was right, the man never slept. Today, though, Seth seemed preoccupied. He nodded to Art and said gruffly, “ Buenos días, hombre. We got problems. We need ideas.”

“How to find Oliver Guest?” Art accepted coffee from Dana and brought the cup to his face so that the steam could warm his nose. The room, like the whole building, was icy cold.

“Not how to find him.” Seth was already dressed in outdoor clothes. “I know where Guest was iced down, it was in the syncope facility south of Washington at Maryland Point. Forty to fifty miles from here. Unless somebody moved him, and I don’t see why anyone would, he’s there still. Trouble is, we got no way to reach him. Roads are deep snow. Even our tractor wouldn’t make it.”

So much for Art’s idea that he had the tractor well hidden. And notice how it had become “our” tractor. Dana, squatting on her heels next to Art, shook her head. “Even if the tractor would go through the snow, it wouldn’t make sense to try. It’s nearly April, the weather has to warm up soon. We can sit here and wait for a few days, then we can travel easily.”

“We might, except for one thing.” Seth gestured at one of the room’s electrical outlets. “No power, no water, no services of any kind.”

“We don’t need them. We have food and warmth and shelter right here. We can manage.”

“I’m not worryin’ about us, sweetie. We’re snug. I’m worried about good old Ollie. If we got no services here, I’ll bet some old-style folding money they got none down at Maryland Point. What happens to somebody in judicial sleep when the power goes off? I assume they just snooze on for a while. But if the intravenous feeds quit, and the drugs and nutrients don’t go in, what happens?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor do I. Maybe the sleepers all starve an’ die. Maybe they wake up and head for the hills. Neither one’s any good for us. If Ollie turns to spoiled beef we’re out of luck. And if he’s awake and out of there before we’re in, you can bet your ass and hat we’ll never find him.”

“Seth’s right.” Art warmed his hands at the little stove. “We can’t afford to wait, Dana. We have too much at stake. Oliver Guest is our only shot at continued treatment.”

“So we’re all agreed.” Seth stood up. “We gotta go, and soon. But how?”

“If we can’t go by road,” Dana said slowly, “what else is there? The monorail? I know the service is dead, but the tracks may be clear.”

“Even if they are,” Art said, “they won’t help much. They run southeast from here, straight into the middle of Washington. We have to reach a lot farther south.”

“On the river,” said Seth thoughtfully. “Maryland Point is on the Potomac. How far are we from the river? If only we had a map of the area.”

“I have maps.”

“You do?” Seth Parsigian raised his eyebrows at Art. “You really planned ahead. You got precognition?”

“No. But I’ve got friends who must have.” Art didn’t try to explain. He said, “Wait a minute,” and headed back upstairs. When he returned holding Ed O’Donnell’s old maps, Seth and Dana were arguing, crouched together across the portable stove.

“South,” Dana said. “No more than five miles.”

“I don’t think so. Five miles may be right, but you go west.” Seth glanced at the three maps that Art held out. “The question is, what direction leads you fastest to the Potomac? If we can reach it, we may be able to run along it all the way to the syncope facility.”

“If we had a boat.”

“We get to the river, you let me worry about that. I’m a top scavenger.” Seth opened one of the maps. “This should tell us. Except it looks like it came out of the Ark.”

“The land/river boundary hasn’t changed in fifty years.” Dana leaned over so that she and Seth could study the map together. She touched one location with her finger. “Here we are, west of the freeway. And there’s the river.”

“Then we’re both right.” Seth was measuring using his index finger as a rule. “The Potomac is just about as far away to the south as it is to the west. Say, five or six miles.”

“That’s beeline distance.” Dana ran her finger straight across the map. “We’d never make it crosscountry. It’s more by road. But there are no roads to the west. We have a good road south, the one we are on. We can follow Seven Locks just about all the way to the river.”

“If it weren’t for the snow, we could.” Seth sat back on his haunches. “You saw what it was like yesterday. If, anything, the going will be worse today. If nobody took a mind to stop us — and I’m not comfortable with that assumption — you’re talkin’ about a full day’s trek. And that’s just to get us to the river. We have to go a lot farther. All right, folks, who has a better idea?”

He didn’t speak like a man expecting an answer. But he offered no resistance when Art said, “Let me see,” and took the map from his hands.

“You think you got better eyes than us?” Seth said, when Art followed an invisible line with his finger. “You see a road where we don’t?”

“I think so. A sort of road.” Art wasn’t one to play word games, but he needed to be sure. He traced Seven Locks Road with his finger. It ran south in almost a straight line and ended just short of the river. He examined it in more detail, and shook his head.

“We already looked at that, Art,” Dana said. “The snow is the problem.”

“Not for us, it won’t be.” Art was sure. “The way we go won’t be easy, but we’ll have no trouble with snow.”