Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

That got results.

When she appeared, Patricia’s hair was tangled and her eyes were puffy from sleep. She served her father diluted grape drink in a jelly glass, with a plate of stale cookies. “The boys’ve eaten everything else,” she said wearily. “I haven’t had time to go to the store yet… I don’t know where the day goes…”

The glass was not clean; a faint corona of crumbs was embedded in dried saliva around the rim.

Staunton cleared his throat loudly to interrupt the spate of apologies. “Pat, sit down here and listen to me. We need to talk. Your husband is not happy at the bank. I’ve been speaking with some friends of mine and they’re willing… I mean they’ll… offer him a place in politics. It would be a high-profile position with one of the public service committees; a real plum that might lead to better things when all this ‘Change’ business gets sorted out. What do you say? Will you help me persuade him?”

As she always did, the Old Man’s daughter said yes to him.

In the vice president’s office later that day Dwayne Nyeberger told Staunton no. Emphatically, no. “You want to dump me on a committee of talking heads like some worn-out government flunky? I won’t do it! I’m going to stay right here in the S and S until the roof falls in. When I married Tricia you promised me a job for life and I’m damned well holding you to it!”

Staunton returned to his own office to consider his options.

An envelope with an official seal was waiting on his desk.

“The president of the United States wishes to inform you that the military reserves are being put on standby. The nearest garrison to you will be in Benning. All banks are to reenforce their security systems and notify the military authorities of any suspicious behavior.”

Staunton read the letter twice. “What the hell constitutes suspicious behavior?” he asked the stern faces gazing down at him from their portraits. “This damned thing’s been suspicious from the beginning!” He stomped out of his office and called across the lobby, “Miz Bea! Come in here and explain to me what in hell’s going on.”

She read the letter gravely, then handed it back to him. “At least somebody’s doing something.”

“ We’re doing something, woman. I’m proud of this town. People are trying hard to keep going.”

“Most of them are,” she agreed. “What choice is there? Besides, after 9/11 the New Yorkers didn’t panic. They kept their heads and helped each other, we’ve all seen the films.”

“I’m surprised that a foreign country didn’t attack us then.”

“I don’t think we need to worry now,” she said reassuringly. “Other governments are no better than ours at dealing with the Change, they all have layers of entrenched bureaucracy. China’s not making its problems public and the Russians claim they have ‘everything under control,’ but the Swiss and Germans have admitted defeat. Like us, they’re just trying to maintain civil society.”

The young Nyebergers had become addicted to their new games and were going through the early stages of withdrawal after their machines failed. Their mother had been relieved to pack them off to school when the autumn came.

The school staff was frantically busy trying to adapt to the altered situation. No single aspect of education was without its problems. Even the check-in system had failed.

The young Nyebergers took advantage of the opportunity for permanent truancy.

Relieved of any adult oversight Sandy, Kirby and Buster Nyeberger, with Flub and Dub in tow, roamed widely. On an afternoon fragrant with burning leaves their energy carried them as far as RobBenn.

A couple of cars at one end of a parking lot designed for hundreds looked like castaways on a beach. Robert Bennett had done away with the expense of a security guard at the front gate. The sentry cabin was padlocked, as were the other gates in the high chain-link fence that embraced the complex.

The young Nyebergers followed the fence around the perimeter, searching for an easy way in. They had no plans but endless optimism. In such a large place there were bound to be opportunities for mischief.

An hour earlier Gerry Delmonico had left RobBenn for the last time. After weeks of putting it off, he had returned to collect a few personal items he had left behind. He found Robert Bennett still in the office, shuffling through papers. Good manners had compelled Gerry to say good-bye, but not before Bennett extracted one last service. “Before you go, take this swipe key to the laboratory wing and make sure all the doors are locked,” he ordered. “You never know when some cokehead will come looking for drugs.”

Gerry had nodded absentmindedly. His thoughts were concentrated on Gloria, their unborn baby and the increasingly uncertain future.

Buster Nyeberger stared at three stories of blank concrete unlike the rest of the complex, which displayed more glass than walls. “Hey, lookit this,” he called to Sandy. “Whaddaya think they got in there?”

Sandy scratched his head. Like all but one of his siblings he had a dense, scruffy mop of straw-colored thatch atop a pudgy face. “It’s a top-secret lavratory,” he ventured.

“Laboratory,” Kirby corrected. The nicest thing O. M. Staunton had ever said about his grandsons was, “They look like a tree full of young owls.” Kirby was the exception, an attractive youngster with angelic features and thickly lashed eyes. “Jimmy Deel’s in my class in school,” he told his brothers, “and he says they make stuff out here to store gunpowder in. His dad sells them hardware and stuff so he knows all about it. If we get hold of some gunpowder we can make terrific fireworks and stuff for Halloween.”

They headed for the nearest panel of chain link and began to climb.

The fence was no challenge to the young Nyebergers, who could swarm over obstacles of almost any description. All five made it without so much as a skinned knee. Their delight was compounded by the discovery of a small service door at the side, with the kind of lock they understood. Assiduous application of determined boyish muscle and a Swiss army knife were enough to do the trick.

The Nyebergers entered the laboratory wing alight with excitement. Their footsteps echoed on polished floors lined on either side by framed photographs. Robert Bennett in football gear, Robert Bennett graduating from university; Robert Bennett turning the first sod for RobBenn; Robert Bennett, almost invisible in a pack of dark-suited business leaders, meeting the president at the White House.

Buster dismissed the entire display with a single word of contempt. “Assholes.”

The boys went from one room to the next, but their search was thwarted by locked filing cabinets, books of technical jargon and storage closets stuffed to the ceiling with boxes. When they discovered several inoperative computers they hooted with laughter. “It’s no better than our junk,” Sandy sneered.

Then they hit the jackpot.

In a cornucopia of shameless bribes for good behavior—which never worked—the boys had once been given a child’s chemistry set. Only Kirby had shown any interest, though after the liquids were spilled and the powders scattered he abandoned it. In a large room at the end of the hall he recognized its adult version. “This is where they do the serious stuff!” he gleefully informed his brothers.

The laboratory was well organized. A double-width island of gray metal tables ran down the center of the room. It held both Bunsen and Fisher burners and a variety of glass test tubes and vials, as well as numerous bottles and jars. The latter were identified by labels that mostly resembled hieroglyphics. Tall stools were ranged around the tables. Shelves laden with more supplies and teetering piles of file folders covered the walls. In one corner stood a large glass water cooler on a metal tripod.