John Barnes - Directive 51

“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.”

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?”

Bolton nodded. “If we run them off, how long before more come back?”

“Well, these guys must have been brought here by word of mouth, so they’re just the first wave… and I’d hate to have to try to hold this place at night…”

“What if we move the prisoner?” Bambi asked.

“Where and how?”

“We take the biohazard Hummer out the back garage exit. My father is Harrison Castro, and I—”

“Wait a sec, the guy they call the Mad Baron is your father? Billionaire, built himself a Castle overlooking the harbor maybe five years ago?”

“Yep. Survivalist nut like Grandpa and Great-grandpa before him. He could hold that place against an army. He’ll take in anyone I tell him to, no prob. He’s got a protected way down to his private pier, he owns too many sailboats to remember all their names, and I’ve been sailing since I could stand up. We take Roth there, rest up, maybe he’s got radio and if he doesn’t he’s building it, we call in to DC for instructions, and we can either keep Roth in the Mad Baron’s Castle, or I can run her up the coast, or for that matter, Dave, trust me on this, I was raised in boats and I could sail her around the Horn to Washington if I had to.”

“Oh, I believe it.” Carlucci raised his binoculars again; the crowd was still climbing the long slow slope of the hill, but they would be there in less than ten minutes. “Bolton, you drive. Take the two meanest-looking GAFEs with you. Wedge Roth between them in the back seat; Castro will bring her to you in a second.” Bolton was gone in an instant. Carlucci said, “Castro, get moving. I’m officially remanding the prisoner to the Department of the Future, as of this second.”

“Thanks. If you need somewhere to be, Dad’s got room for hundreds. Bring your families. Even if I’m gone, he’ll let you in if I tell him to.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You sure could. Your family too, ’kay? If you don’t bring them, Dad will make you go get them anyway. Food, a roof, a safe bed, and plenty of people working to keep it that way. You won’t get any better offer, trust me. Now you go stall, and I’ll go get our terrorist, and I’ll see you at Castle Castro.” Bambi raced down the hall to the interrogation room. “Mensche, sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got to relocate the prisoner, mob on the way, and they’re close, get details from Carlucci.” She grabbed Ysabel by the hand, saying, “This way, now.”