Ill Wind Part 36

The musicians making their way to the Altamont commune were a mish-mash of drummers, singers, guitarists. Each one had cobbled together musical instruments from pieces that survived the ravages of the petroplague. Many carried wooden flutes, harmonicas, metal autoharps, and expensive cla.s.sical guitars with ivory instead of plastic tuning pegs and expensive gut strings instead of nylon.

Several engineers in Livermore had taken the challenge to build functional amplifiers and pickups. Two of them even hoped to build a working electric guitar to really shatter the silence.

After dark, the musicians sat around the evening fire and jammed. The crowds grew bigger and bigger as the days went by, and people rode in from the surrounding towns just to hear the evening practice sessions.

Ironically, before the petroplague, most of these people would never have gone to the same bars or the same concerts. Divided into their own little cultural subgroups, cliques had used fine divisions of music to separate themselves: cla.s.sic rock, folk music, heavy metal, technopop, easy listening, country. Now though, with everything else falling apart, the music itself-regardless of brand or flavor-brought them together and they listened without the scorn or sn.o.bbery they would have shown before.

Satisfied, Iris sat on her lumpy cus.h.i.+on under the stars, sipping strong herb tea from a metal cup. They had stuffed themselves with a delicious stew made in a big pot: vegetables from Tracy, herbs from the gardens planted around the commune, and beef from the local ranchers.

Iris lounged back and looked at the people, thinking how strange a mix they seemed-Jackson Harris's inner-city refugees, throwback hippies, herself a Stanford microbiologist, and redneck ranchers, cowboys, and migrant workers.

Doog started off the singing himself, accompanied by a quiet un.o.btrusive harmonica. He had a rich, mellow voice, and he closed his eyes as the words came from his lips. The firelight reflected from the circles of his John Lennon gla.s.ses. He seemed to be pulling the music out of his soul as he sang.

It didn't really matter that Doog's own taste in music was radically different from what hers had been. Now, as she listened to his voice and thought of her own driving obsession to make the Altamont concert a reality, her need to bring not just music, but Rock 'n Roll, back to the world.

Then she thought of Todd's need to help start the world on the long journey back to civilization-even if it meant a fool's errand of carrying solar-power satellites across the country.

What right did she have to step on his dreams?

Long before the music ended for the night, Iris went off to bed, alone.

Chapter 68.

Todd Severyn rode high on the buckboard of their commandeered wagon and stared across the landscape of the American southwest.

Beside him, holding the reins of the three horses pulling the wagon, burly Casey Jones sat hypnotized by the desert terrain. He fixed his big dark eyes on the horizon as if willing it to come closer. Casey pushed at the old s.h.i.+rt wrapped like a turban around his bald head to protect him from sunstroke.

He and Todd rode together in the comfortable silence of two men who had already spent too much time together and had used up their conversation. In the wagon bed behind them, Henrietta Soo snoozed in the afternoon heat. Lying against the ten smallsats they had hauled from Pasadena, she sweated under the reflective blankets that tried to keep the heat away.

Todd slouched his cowboy hat over his eyes as the horses plodded along. His arms still ached from days of pumping the railroad handcar across southern California and part of Arizona-but overall he was amazed at how uneventful the journey had been.

Todd kept tattered old maps in a sack under the buckboard, marking his best guess of where they were on their trek. Once they had abandoned the handcar and took to the roads, Casey's railroad chart hadn't been much help. By Todd's reckoning, they had crossed Arizona into New Mexico, then veered south toward Alamogordo and White Sands. Pus.h.i.+ng hard, they might reach Spencer Lockwood's solar-power farm within the next two days.

Early that morning, the last settlement they encountered was a Native American village and old trading post. They had refilled their water containers and traded gossip and news for a delicious breakfast of fresh eggs and tortillas. The desert road stretched arrow-straight ahead of them. The three horses trotted along the easy path with a distance-eating gait.

"People up ahead," Casey Jones said. His deep voice was gruff and startling in the sleepy afternoon stillness.

Todd c.o.c.ked his hat back and squinted at two people walking down the road out in the middle of nowhere. Both were tall, a man and a woman; the woman carried a brilliant neon pink backpack.

As the wagon approached, the two hikers stepped off to the side of the road and stood, hands on hips, and waited. The man, tall and broad-shouldered with a mane of straw-colored hair and a devil-may-care grin, stuck out his hand in a cla.s.sic hitchhiker's pose. He carried a shotgun over one shoulder and a broad hunting knife at his belt.

Beside him, the woman looked tired, but well-proportioned. She stood like an amazon. She had auburn hair and a strikingly pretty, strong face-nothing dainty about it. She probably hadn't been much to look at competing in a world of fas.h.i.+on models and heavily applied makeup; but now she was quite memorable.

Casey reined in the horses, and the wagon came to a stop. In the back, Henrietta Soo sat up blinking; she crinkled the reflective blanket away from her.

"Hey, can you give us a lift?" the big blond man said.

The woman smiled at Casey, then flashed a broader grin at Todd, as if she had just seen saviors coming to rescue her. "We'd really appreciate it," she said. "I'm Heather Dixon."

She stretched out her hand, and Todd didn't know if she meant for him to shake it or just give her a hand up into the wagon. She turned to her companion. "And this is-"

He cut her off with an almost savage grin. "Clyde," he said, "you can just call me Clyde."

By now, Miles Uma had grown accustomed to the a.s.sumed name "Casey Jones." After months by himself, hiding from anyone who might recognize him, Uma had successfully walled himself off from his former existence as the captain of an oil supertanker. He had never told his real name to Rex O'Keefe and the Gambotti brothers, now lost somewhere in LA, alive or dead. He had never told Todd.

The parched scenery around him with its palette of tan, mauve, and rust seemed a million miles from the ocean and the knotted gray clouds he had seen every day on the bridge of the Zoroaster Zoroaster. Uma drove the team of horses, trying not to recall the times he had captained the enormous steel s.h.i.+p.

He had spent his life on the sea: working on tugs up in Alaska, spending six months on a barge, then working his way up to the supertankers owned by Oilstar. He had served in the merchant marines, spent a few years in the Navy when he was younger, and learned everything he needed to know about ocean-going vessels. The sea was his family, his lover. Ever-changing, the sea was always there.

But now the air around him smelled of sage and yucca. He couldn't recall how the ocean smelled-though he could never forget the stench of spilled crude oil.

Uma extinguished most of those stray thoughts from his mind. He found it easier to forget by latching unto a task, pouring his entire being into accomplis.h.i.+ng it. Whether it was fixing up the locomotive Steam Roller Steam Roller, gathering food to bring to the starving ma.s.ses in Los Angeles, or carrying satellites off to New Mexico.

He still had nightmares about seeing the towering Golden Gate Bridge in the darkness, breaking through the control room door locked by Connor Brooks. He still felt the millions of barrels of oil gus.h.i.+ng out from his fragile tanker, saw the TV footage of the spill crawling across the San Francis...o...b..y.

Uma remembered the brutal finality of the swift board of inquiry that had stripped him of his captain's rank. Oilstar had fired him, of course, and Uma couldn't argue with their decision. He was the captain of the Zoroaster, Zoroaster, he was responsible for the actions of his crew. Anything else was just an excuse . . . and Miles Uma did not believe in excuses. he was responsible for the actions of his crew. Anything else was just an excuse . . . and Miles Uma did not believe in excuses.

It didn't matter that Connor Brooks had actually caused the crash of the oil tanker. It didn't matter that one of Oilstar's microbiologists had actually spread the Prometheus organism that devoured gasoline and petroleum plastics. It didn't matter that everyone else had found some way to pa.s.s the buck.

Uma vowed to spend the rest of his days atoning, to make amends in any way possible, one task after another, from now until the end of his life.

When he and Todd Severyn and Henrietta Soo had left the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, they worked the handcar to propel them along the tracks away from the city, through the San Gabriel Mountains, and into the great southern basin that was one of the least-populated areas in the entire United States. He took twice as many s.h.i.+fts as Todd or Henrietta, refusing to rest, enjoying the pain in his arms because that seared away distractions. Rolling along the rails, they got up an even greater speed than he had estimated, moving along near 25 miles per hour on the long straight stretches across the desert.

The distance from Barstow to Needles was murder, some of the bleakest, hottest wasteland he had ever imagined. Even though they worked through the night, it took them three days to cross the distance and to ascend the near-impossible slopes of the mountain range that stood like battlements across their path. But they made up for the time descending the east side of the slopes, across the California border, into the more hospitable terrain beyond the Colorado River.

In eastern Arizona they pa.s.sed an abandoned ranch with horses running loose in a large pen out back; wagons rested in a supply yard by the barn. The ranch house stood silent, and as they rolled the handcar into the dawn light, ready to stop for the day, Todd kept staring at the horses. Uma knew what was on his mind.

With a wagon and team of horses, they could make better time without killing themselves from the effort. By now, Uma himself felt ready to drop from aching muscles, and Todd and Henrietta were worse off. Their pace had decreased over the last two days.

They stopped and went to the ranchhouse, hoping to replenish their supplies and at least have a good rest inside a real house on real mattresses, possibly even wash. Todd called out as they walked around the ranch yard. He saw no one moving, only the horses in the back meadows. Uma went to the ranch house, finding it unlocked. No one answered their shouts, and all three entered the darkened home.

The air smelled heavy and musty, as if no one had moved there for months. Everything was reasonably neat, unmolested by scavengers. Underlying it all hung a sour, rancid stench that was oppressive in the thick heat of the house.

They went into the kitchen, where morning light spilled through a broad window onto ceramic tiles and countertops. Uma opened the sealed refrigerator, and a strong gust of rotten meat drifted out. He did find some cans of soda and beer, which they took with them.

"Look at this," Henrietta said. She reached to one of the door shelves and pulled out a cardboard box that contained five gla.s.s bottles. Prescription labels marked it as insulin. In another package, glistening needles lay surrounded by globs of translucent mucus-the remains of plastic hypodermic syringes.

In the big reading room and study, they found the corpse.

The man had been there for probably two months. The dry desert heat had preserved him somewhat, but not enough. He lay blackened and swollen in a big, overstuffed leather chair. His eyes were closed. His hair and fingernails had continued to grow.

Todd stumbled and sat down heavily in a chair, hanging his head in his hands. "Just like I found Alex," he said. Uma didn't know what he was talking about.

The study had tall French windows, covered with sheer curtains. Books lined the oak shelves along two walls, and a large fireplace sat black and cold, mounded with white ashes . . .

That afternoon, they buried the man out back.

They spent the rest of the evening gathering supplies. The isolated ranch apparently held many months of stores. All the meat in the freezer had turned rotten, but a large cache of canned goods, as well as dried and smoked meats, remained.

Todd seemed to enjoy rounding up three of the horses and hitching the wagon. Together, they strained to load the ten solar satellites into the bed of the wagon. Uma, Todd, and Henrietta washed with tepid water from the emergency tank by the barn; Uma took the time to shave his entire head with the straight razor. They stayed the night, getting a good rest on comfortable beds, then set out the following morning.

Uma drove the horses as they turned away from the railroad tracks and headed toward New Mexico. They made good time, and Uma began to feel a numbed contentment at seeing the landscape roll by beneath them. Doing something. Doing something. He did not think about his past. He did not think about his past.

While he doubted he would ever be happy again, for the first time in many months Uma did not feel miserable. He thought of himself as Casey Jones. . . .

And now, in an incredible, vengeful coincidence, they encountered Connor Brooks, like a great kick in the crotch.

Uma hunched down and kept silent under his rag turban while guiding the horses. Perhaps Brooks just wasn't bright enough to recognize him, but Uma could never forget the face of the maniac that had caused the wreck of the Oilstar Zoroaster Zoroaster.

Throughout the day, Brooks rode in the back of the wagon, acting charming and talking with Henrietta Soo. She extolled the importance of the solar satellites, talked about where they were going, and how their mission could bring about a renaissance of civilization.

The young woman, Heather Dixon, latched onto Todd. She sat beside him in front asking questions about himself, appearing demure but not sure if she was going about it the right way. Todd was overwhelmed by the attention. He avoided Heather's eyes but glanced at her whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

On the other hand, Heather and Connor Brooks seemed to resent each other a great deal. Uma saw it all.

As the miles pa.s.sed, he just sat on the buckboard guiding the horses. A storm raged within him, and he didn't know what to do.

Todd looked up from his conversation with Heather when Casey Jones stopped the wagon. By sunset, they had reached the wooded foothills of a low line of mountains. It amazed him how fast the afternoon had gone by.

Heather chuckled. High thin shreds of cloud started to turn amber in the slanting light. Just a short walk away, he could see a slash of green through the hills that marked a small stream. Casey Jones jumped down from the buckboard and unhitched the horses, hobbling them so they could graze on the thick scrub.

The big dark man had been unusually reticent since noon, but Todd was preoccupied talking with Heather. Her companion Clyde climbed out of the back of the wagon and helped Henrietta down, smiling graciously at her.

"I noticed you had decent supplies in there," Clyde said. "It would be great to have an nice dinner for a change."

Todd kept looking at the green line of the stream. At the abandoned ranch in Arizona he had taken a couple of bamboo fis.h.i.+ng poles and lures, hoping to find a chance to use them. "I think I'd rather try for some fresh food," he said, pointing toward the stream. "Why don't you fix up what meal you want. I'm going to try my hand at catching some trout over there."

"If you've got two poles, I'll come along and help," Heather said, startling Todd. As soon as she spoke, he realized that was exactly what he hoped she would say.

In his former life, working around oil fields and dirty rigs, he never considered himself an expert in the social graces. Heather seemed a bit too eager to go off alone with him, and he felt a stab of guilt thinking about Iris-who was now about fifteen hundred miles away.

Todd remembered his awkward courts.h.i.+p of Iris, a few telephone calls, the long horseback ride from Alex Kramer's home down to Stanford to pick her up, and the enjoyable times they'd had in the Altamont commune. But he never understood why a woman like Iris s.h.i.+kozu would be remotely attracted to an old cowboy like himself. Was it just a relations.h.i.+p of convenience? Someone to team up with during the crisis of the spreading petroplague?

Todd's head hurt. He wasn't used to thinking like this. Things happened or they didn't, and b.u.mbling with psychological explanations, trying to second-guess what had occurred or what might have been-all that kind of garbage was for people who didn't have anything else to do with their lives . . . people who wanted a ready excuse for anything.

He recalled the last thing Iris had said to him before he left. She had called him stupid and laughed at his personal quest to deliver the satellites. Despite all the time he had spent missing Iris, her callousness rekindled his anger. She could stay there in the Altamont and play her rock music for all he cared.

"Sure," Todd said to Heather. "I've got two fis.h.i.+ng poles."

The tough blond guy looked at them with a barely concealed sneer as Todd and Heather took the fis.h.i.+ng gear and headed off.

The stream had cut itself a deep channel through the loose soil. Water ran shallow but fast over boulders covered with streamers of algae. Todd scrambled down to the bank, slipping with his cowboy boots but trying not to look too clumsy. He helped Heather down, but she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Her jeans were worn and dirty, but her legs were long and slim. He watched the way she moved down the hillside. Squatting on a rock by the water, she flicked her reddish hair over her shoulder and smiled at him before she dipped her hands in the stream and splashed water on her face.

In the colorful light of sunset, the glittering droplets of water on her skin as she rubbed her cheeks made her look more beautiful than any amount of makeup ever could. Todd caught himself looking at her and turned away.

He tied a small spinner on one of the fish lines. He had spent plenty of times out in Wyoming, catching trout and fixing his own dinner before sleeping under the stars, with only a blanket and his horse for company. Todd handed Heather the first pole, then tied another lure for himself.

"Watch you don't get it snagged in the rocks," he said. "If there's trout in here, they'll be hiding down under the shadows."

Heather sat on a rock beside him, dangling her lure in the water and flicking it back and forth. Todd showed her how to improve her technique, but Heather seemed distracted, as if she needed to talk about something but was afraid to broach the subject. Todd felt his stomach knotting. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what was on her mind.

"We need to get away," she finally said. Her voice was husky, but frightened. "I've been with Connor for over a month. We've been wandering eastward, going nowhere-but he's getting more and more unstable."

"Connor?"

"That's his real name. He said 'Clyde' because he thinks the two of us are Bonnie and Clyde. He's sick, and he's dangerous. I watched him shoot somebody's dog just so he could frighten them."

"So . . . what do you want to do?"

"I want to leave. We can keep walking now. now. Follow this stream up into the mountains. Keep moving! I've been living off the land for a month now. It's not so difficult." Follow this stream up into the mountains. Keep moving! I've been living off the land for a month now. It's not so difficult."

"But-" Todd said, then his mind blanked on him. "I came all this way with the solar satellites. I can't just stop now. Casey Jones and Dr. Soo are counting on me to go with them. Do you think they're in danger just being with this guy? Maybe we should tell him to be on his way."

"Of course they're in danger!" Heather said, "but not unless we go back and spill his story. What's more important?" Her eyes were big and pleading. "We could make a go of it, couldn't we?"

"I-" he said, then his fish hook snagged on a rock. Thankful for the distraction, Todd turned back to the stream and began yanking on the pole to dislodge the lure. He could feel himself sweating with anxiety. His head was in a turmoil. He had left Iris in the Altamont because he needed to accomplish this journey. He couldn't just run off now.

He finally got the fishhook free and yanked it out of the water. Turning to face Heather again, he froze stock still.

She had unb.u.t.toned her plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt and yanked it open, untucking it from the waistband of her pants and exposing her large b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her nipples stood out like strawberries on her pale skin. Todd stared dumbstruck.

Silvery reflective blankets and wadded padding covered the solar satellites in the back of the wagon. Connor Brooks poked around, catching a glimpse of the metal-clad smallsats. They didn't look like much, but the lady doctor had been babbling all day about how f.u.c.king valuable they were, how they would bring back high-tech civilization.

When he thought no one else was looking, he snooped around, wondering what he could do with the sats. Maybe he could hold them for ransom or sell them off to somebody. The cowboy and that s.l.u.t Heather had gone off fis.h.i.+ng together, and they were probably banging away in the bushes at this very moment. Connor didn't give a d.a.m.n. She had grown boring enough in the last week.

He could smell the food the old lady doctor was heating at a small campfire, and it made his mouth water. The dark Quasimodo guy who drove the horses had been skulking around the campsite, but Connor couldn't see him now. The man had some real problems, didn't speak a word to anybody. He looked like a chocolate cue ball when he took off the turban on his head. Weird s.h.i.+t.

Ten satellites lay in the wagon bed. The horses were unhitched, and he figured it would take him maybe five minutes to hook them up again. After everyone bedded down, he could sneak back here and do it quietly, then ride off before anybody woke up fast enough to stop him.

He heard a soft footstep behind him and turned just in time to see the stocky black man lunge toward him, smas.h.i.+ng his ribs against the side of the wagon. Connor let out a startled cry and gasped as the breath was halfway knocked out of him. The big creep grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.

"Good to see you again, Brooks! a.s.shole." The man's voice sounded like a nail file dragged over a jagged edge of gla.s.s.

"Hey!" Connor gasped, struggling. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" The man tried to twist him around, but Connor squirmed out of his grip. Dancing back and on his guard, Connor whirled. "Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?"