John Barnes - The Last President

For the second time since “back before,” Christmas crept under the world’s grimy, icy blanket of soot, found the world shivering, hungry, and afraid, and brought the world nothing.

“Back before” was shorthand to avoid saying “back before Daybreak,” because the word “Daybreak” called up memories that made the bad dreams worse:

Back before, when we had fresh orange juice in the fridge, and a fridge, and a kitchen, and a house.

Back before, when we had Internet, and gasoline, and emergency rooms.

Back before, when I could pick up the phone and talk to Mom, or the kids.

When I knew where they were.

When they were alive.

In the broken pieces of the old civilization, other dreams slipped in, and the cold slumber of misery was disturbed by conflicting tiny relentless hopes.

Dave Carlucci checked both black-powder four-shot Newberry revolvers and holstered them. His heavy fighting knife slid easily in its scabbard. His broom-handle-and-chain flail had tight eyebolts and no cracks. He turned to Arlene, his wife—

Outside the office door, Bolton said, “Horses are saddled.”

“Yeah. In a sec.” Carlucci kissed Arlene; they held each other a little longer as they always did when rough stuff was impending. “Back before sunset, I think. They’ll feed us at the Castle.”

“You be careful and come back. And we’ve got a couple Christmas treats for this evening, so take it easy on the desserts up there.” She kissed him again, retying the laces that ran through the upper two buttonholes of his coat. The ruddy light from the lantern on the desk, throttled back to conserve precious vegetable oil, touched her face with gold between pitch-black shadows.

One more hug. I’m getting too old to look forward to action; damn , it’s nice to be held. “You take care too,” he whispered. Carlucci turned toward the door, speaking too loudly to Bolton. “Okay, Terry, let’s do this.”

Their four deputies were already mounted, vapor rising from the shuddering horses. Carlucci swung up into his saddle, and they set off at a comfortable walk, with Bichsler, riding point, holding the lantern up to reveal frozen puddles and slick spots.

“This is one long ride for something they’re better equipped to do themselves,” Bolton said, as they turned the horses north. “And having to keep a lantern out—”

“And I’d rather be at home on Christmas morning, too, Terry, but we’re the Feds, and it’s a Federal bust.” Carlucci shrugged. “Besides, the lantern isn’t giving anything away to the tribals; FBI riders are out all the time, anyway, dark and ice be damned.”

“No shit,” Bichsler muttered from the point.

Bolton sighed. “It’s a dark, cold Christmas morning away from my kids. And I’ll never again swing through the McDonald’s drive-up and get a great big hot cup of coffee on the way.”

Carlucci thought, That sigh was too sincere . Every little thing Terry Bolton notices that isn’t here anymore, Tupperware to movies to McDonald’s, all those little things are just wearing him down. His added thought, Nothing I can do about it , made him sad, so he was too bluff and hearty when he finally spoke. “One short nasty job, Terry, and then you can go back to being your usual sunny, jolly self.”

Montez, riding drag, snorted.

They clopped along at a steady walk; except for their lantern, the only light was the stars and the distant beacon on Castle Castro.

It had been too damp to desiccate bodies and not cold enough to freeze them; Chula Vista and National City smelled like spoiled hamburger. Maybe now that Bambi’s the freeholder at Castle Castro, we’ll be able to do something about all the unburied bodies. She’ll be more cooperative than her father was, anyway.

Pre-dawn glowed bruise-purple. Bichsler doused the lantern. A light sea breeze chilled them but dragged away the smell. The horses moved more confidently.

Bolton shivered. “I didn’t even own a coat before Daybreak.”

“Well, the scientists in Pueblo say there’s more carbon dioxide in the air than any time recorded, so once the soot settles, you’ll forget frozen-dead palm trees and complain about San Diego being like Baja used to be.”

“Lying in a lawn chair on the beach with a chilled beer?” Bolton said. “Let’s skip to that part right now.”

They rode on through the dark, wet cold. At least there was no sleet. This Christmas sucks ass, but giving birth in a stable in the winter probably really sucked too.

Bad analogy. If we were in that story, we’d be working for Herod.

Half an hour later, dawn greased the tops of the old office buildings and hotels, the abandoned Navy ships across the bay, and the few remaining power poles. This close to the Castle, the streets were cleared of rubble and cars, and every standing storefront was walled up.

Four men in Castle Castro uniforms appeared around a corner. The leader waved. “Mister Carlucci!”

“Hey, Donald.”

“Miss Castro said to come out and meet you. She didn’t say what it’d be about, so I figure I’m not supposed to ask.”

They swung north to follow the line of sealed buildings linked by the Castle’s outer wall.

Bolton said, “This wall must’ve been some work.”

“Yeah, ’specially without no power tools, but I’m real glad it’s there. Last summer when the Awakening Dolphins attacked, we had to crowd up in the keep for three weeks, and we lost lots of garden beds we could be eating from now. I like having some room inside the walls if we need it, ’specially since we’re up to eight thousand people now.”

The guards on the towers at the big gate waved them through z-form barriers wide enough for a pre-Daybreak semi.

Fishing boats were pulled up for the holiday on the beaches of the old luxury hotels, which had been mostly torn down for materials to build the walls. Just for today, no one tended the vegetable beds on the old lawns. Picks and shovels were stacked by the parking lots; tomorrow would be soon enough to resume breaking them up.

Across the hills just north of the harbor, behind what remained of the chain-link fence that had marked Harrison Castro’s estate, back before, the inner wall reared up yards higher than the outer wall. Wheelbarrows, piles of blocks, and stacked tools waited beside its remaining gaps.

“You built the outer wall first?”

“Mister Castro said the outer wall was what would really matter ’cause if it held we could stand a siege. This wall’s just a backup. Miss Castro says she can’t plan nothing better than her dad could so we’re staying on his plan.”

Carlucci said, “‘Miss Castro’? not ‘Countess Castro’ or ‘Mrs. Larsen’?”

“Just habit. I drove the limo that brought her here the day she was born. Most people in the Castle call her ‘the Countess’ now.”

Bambi Castro did not look very Countess-like in thick-soled moccasins, a black baggy sweater, and jeans, with her long black hair pinned up close. She looked more like what she had been fourteen months before, a young Fed, the liaison from an obscure agency, when Carlucci had welcomed her to his office. Now she was welcoming him to her fief, which was about a third of pre-Daybreak California.