Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

Saul loved being President. You did what you could; but no matter how much you loved it, when you left office you might well thank God that the job could not last forever.

Art began to regret their decision the moment Seth climbed into the body drawer alongside Oliver Guest.

“All right,” Seth whispered. “Close it.”

Art hesitated, then leaned down toward him. “Don’t get any cute ideas, Seth. You’d never have made it this far without Dana and me.”

“I know that, for Christ’s sake. You think I’m gonna head for the hills with Ollie here?”

“I’d look for you forever if you tried it.”

“I know that. I don’t want you chasin’ my ass. ’Til we get our treatment goin’, we’re in this together. Come on, close the damn drawer!”

Art, finally ready to slide the drawer shut, paused again. “Where will we meet?”

“Jeez. We never talked about that. Gotta be someplace we’re sure of. We might have to hole up for a while.”

“The Treasure Inn?” Dana suggested.

“Nah. Not safe enough. Better be your cabin, Art, up on Catoctin Mountain.”

“You don’t know where it is.”

“I do. I looked at the maps when we were back at the Treasure Inn gettin’ ready to play sewer-men.”

“But—” Art began.

“I can find the place. Trust me.”

“Hurry up,” Dana said urgently. “I can hear them moving around down below.”

The drawer slid closed, while Art stood and worried. It was too late to change, and there was no other choice. Art in the drawer with Oliver Guest? He was older than Seth, and he lacked the killer spirit. Dana with Oliver Guest? Even worse. And the body drawer held only two, even with a squeeze. It had to be Seth and Oliver Guest. Maybe they were vicious enough to cancel each other out. But the thought of them at Art’s cabin made him awfully uneasy.

“Come on.” The candle was out, and Dana was whispering to him in the darkness. “We have to try and get all the way down before anyone knows we’re in the building. We don’t want them coming up here.”

She took his hand and they tiptoed to the staircase and crept down from floor to floor. There was enough noise from below to cover any small creaking of the metal rails and grilles.

Art could see a dozen people now, each with an electric flashlight. He leaned close to Dana and whispered, “They’re spreading out. If we can get all the way down and outside and they don’t notice . . .”

They moved faster. The lights had dispersed and moved into the aisles. Art and Dana were at the bottom of the stairs and heading for the open double doors when a man’s voice called loudly, “Over here. I think this, is the one.”

Half a dozen people popped into view from the other aisles. Most rushed right past Art and Dana, but an older man in a dark blue uniform took a second look and halted in front of them. He had a gun in a holster on his left hip, and he put his hand on it.

“You’re not with us. This is a secured facility. What are you doing here?”

They had not rehearsed a story. Dana, faster than Art, said at once, “My uncle is in here. We thought that after the supernova things wouldn’t be working. We came to see if he’s all right.”

“You broke in?” The officer gestured to them to walk with him.

“No. The doors were already open.”

That happened to be true, but apparently it was not enough.

“What’s your uncle’s name?”

Dana hesitated, but Art jumped in. “Desmond Lota.” He hoped he had remembered the name correctly. “He’s my cousin. He ought to be over there.”

He pointed back the way they had come. The other man nodded, but he motioned to them to keep walking with him. “We’ll check in a minute.” His nose wrinkled at the stink, stronger the farther they went inside the building. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

The other people were standing in two small clusters halfway down one of the aisles. They took no notice at all of the new arrivals.

“Don’t come any nearer,” one man in the farther cluster said, but he was not addressing Art and Dana. He was talking to two women, the older one with her arm around the other’s shoulder.

Another man was standing by an open body drawer. After a few more seconds he turned away and shook his head. “I’m sorry. This is the right one, Raymond Silvers. I am afraid he is dead.”

“Oh, Raymond.” The younger woman made a low, mewing sound. “I want to see him.” She tried to pull free and walk forward. Two men stood in front of her, and the other woman held her more firmly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, miss,” one of the men said politely. “It would be best if you get outside, into the fresh air. We’ll take care of the formalities here.”

The rest of the group turned. Art and Dana found themselves swept along, the uniformed officer still close at their side. When they were at the double doors, he halted.

“Do you know where your uncle is?” he asked Dana.

“I do,” Art said. In daylight, he could see how pale Dana had become. Fatigue and the nauseating smell in the steadily warming building had brought her close to the edge. “Does she really have to go in? After what you found already?”

“I don’t see why.” The officer gestured to one of the other men. “Keep an eye on her, please. For the moment she’s in your custody.” He turned to Art. “What’s your name?”

“Art Ferrand.” The old principle: the fewer lies you told, the easier it was to keep track of them; and he had no idea what questions Dana might be asked.

“Lieutenant Commander Strasser.” He did not offer Art his hand. “Come on. Let’s take a look. Can you stand it?”

Art did not know what Lieutenant Commander Strasser was referring to, the smell or the prospect of identifying the body of a dead relative. He simply nodded, and they returned to the dark depths of the building.

“He ought to be on the third level up.” Art did not want to say the name again, in case he had it wrong. He was walking slightly in front of Strasser, while the officer shone his flashlight on the serried banks of body drawers.

To change the subject, Art asked, “Was that her father back there?”

“Her brother, I gather.” Strasser’s manner became slightly less formal. “Horrible business, this whole thing. Maybe we ought to have worried about this place sooner, but with everything else going on it has low priority. And they are all criminals. Is this the one?”

In the beam of the flashlight, Art saw the name, Desmond Lota. “That’s it.”

“Can you stand to do this?”

“I’ll be fine.” Art already knew what was coming. It would actually be easier on him than on the other man. “Let’s do it.”

They slid the drawer open. The body of Desmond Lota, bloated and purple, lay before them. Strasser quickly pushed the drawer closed again.

“I’m sorry.” He was breathing hard. “Sorry about your uncle.”

“Cousin. Desmond was supposed to be awakened in another year.” Art did his best to sound heartbroken. “It was never supposed to be a death sentence.”

“Tough.” Strasser breathed again, loudly, as though he had been trying not to. “But you break the law, you take your chances.”

“I guess so.” Art began to walk back toward the entrance, not waiting for Strasser’s approval. The longer he and Dana were separated, the greater the danger that they would tell inconsistent versions of events.

Strasser didn’t object. He seemed in just as much of a hurry, and his face was pale when they emerged from the building. The awful sight and stench had broken through his official attitude that squeamishness was for civilians. He even seemed to regard Art with a bit more respect.