Supervolcano: Eruption (41 page)
Read Supervolcano: Eruption Online
Authors: Harry Turtledove
Morton mined salt. Somewhere far undrground ran endless tunnels and columns that glistened white when electric light shone on them and were altogether black when it didn’t. (Wasn’t that in Kansas? If it was, the salt biz had as much trouble as everybody else.)
Vanessa had started to suspect that they mined MREs the same way. People swapped them around, trying to get the varieties they found least obnoxious. Vanessa played the game, but more to make the time go by than because she really cared about the relative demerits of MREs.
Making time go by was as big a challenge here as it had been back at good old Garden City High, and for the same reason: no electricity. There were charging stations for cell phones, powered by chugging generators. The line for them was never shorter than two hours, 24/7. Vanessa braved it anyhow.
“I’m alive,” she greeted her father when he answered her call.
“You would have had a harder time phoning if you weren’t,” he agreed.
“Dad!” She might have known he would come out with something like that, especially when she handed him such a juicy straight line. All the same . . .
“It’s good to hear from you,” he said. “I’m sure your mother will think so, too.”
Call her next
, that meant. Vanessa was less than thrilled. For one thing, Mom still treated her like a baby, and no doubt would till the end of time. For another, Vanessa blamed Mom for breaking up her folks’ marriage. But, if blood was even slightly thicker than water, it needed doing. Otherwise, Dad would have to take care of it himself. He would, too, and then probably get plowed to wash it out of his system.
, that meant. Vanessa was less than thrilled. For one thing, Mom still treated her like a baby, and no doubt would till the end of time. For another, Vanessa blamed Mom for breaking up her folks’ marriage. But, if blood was even slightly thicker than water, it needed doing. Otherwise, Dad would have to take care of it himself. He would, too, and then probably get plowed to wash it out of his system.
So she sighed and said, “Right.” Then she added the essentials: “I’m in Camp Constitution. The refugee camps are all over the news, I bet.”
“Yup,” Dad said. “How bad is it?”
“Camp Concentration would be a better name,” she dished. “It sucks.”
He wasn’t impressed. She might have known he wouldn’t be. “They’re swamped,” he said. He wasn’t here, either, or he wouldn’t have added, “I’m sure they’re trying as hard as they can.”
“My ass!” Vanessa said, and then, quickly, “Listen, I’m gonna go, and save my battery. You wouldn’t believe what a hassle recharging is, and that’s almost the only electricity here.” He might have said good-bye, but she didn’t wait to hear.
Mom said, “Oh, thank God!” and burst into tears when Vanessa called. Vanessa kept the call even shorter than the one to her father. Again, hanging up was a relief.
After that, Rob. She got his voicemail. He’d updated it to include gigs in Maine, so she figured he was up there. Denver winter was bad enough. Maine was bound to be worse. She left a message and called Marshall.
“Yankee Stadium, second base.” Yeah, that was him.
“Hey, kid bro. Believe it or else, I’m alive.” Vanessa waited for him to do the same kind of number on her as Dad had a few minutes earlier.
“Good kind of way to be,” was as far as Marshall went. He asked the next reasonable question: “Like where are you alive?”
“Camp Constitution.”
“Where’s that?”
“About five miles southeast of the middle of nowhere. Don’t you ever watch the news?”
“Huh? No.” By the way Marshall said it, that was one of your basic dumb questions. He was probably sitting there in Santa Barbara, totally wasted, without a clue about how lucky he was. Then he said, “Guess what I did.”
“I don’t know. Are you out on bail because of it?” Vanessa was thinking about getting busted for dope, although these days that wasn’t easy in California. The acid bite of malice felt good any which way.
It would have felt even better if Marshall had noticed it. As if she hadn’t spoken, he went on, “I sold a story. To
New Fictions
. They’re gonna pay me real money for it.”
New Fictions
. They’re gonna pay me real money for it.”
“You did what? No way!” That was more sea-green envy than disbelief. Like any good editor, Vanessa was sure she would make a good writer as soon as she found the time. As with a lot of good editors, somehow she never did. That Marshall could have appalled her.
“Way,” he said, and she couldn’t doubt the smugness in his voice, however much she wanted to. “I bet I never would have done it if I wasn’t taking that writing class that made me submit.”
“Rrr.” Vanessa wasn’t grinding her teeth, just making a noise as if she were. How many times had she told herself that quitting school and making a real living instead was a good idea? “
Weren’t
taking. It’s contrary to fact,” she said automatically.
Weren’t
taking. It’s contrary to fact,” she said automatically.
“Whatever.” He not only didn’t know, he didn’t care. And he was in Santa Barbara, with electricity and hot water and food that didn’t come out of cardboard boxes and taste like cardboard,
and
he’d sold a fucking story? As a matter of fact, yes. Where was the justice in that?
and
he’d sold a fucking story? As a matter of fact, yes. Where was the justice in that?
“I’ll talk with you more later. I’m going to save my battery.” Vanessa trotted out her built-in excuse once more.
“Right. Take care, y’know?” How baked
was
Marshall? Short of calling the Santa Barbara PD and having them bust him, Vanessa had no way of doing thing one about that. And, since it was Santa Barbara, half the cops probably got lit when they were off duty.
was
Marshall? Short of calling the Santa Barbara PD and having them bust him, Vanessa had no way of doing thing one about that. And, since it was Santa Barbara, half the cops probably got lit when they were off duty.
“Shit!” she said loudly. People were walking by her through the mud. Nobody even looked up. You heard plenty worse than that in Camp Constitution. Vanessa heard plenty worse in her own tent from the trailer-trash single mom whose eleven-, eight-, and six-year-old girls were going out of their tree because they couldn’t watch TV or play video games or get on Facebook—and from the little darlings, too.
She looked up to the uncaring heavens. The uncaring heavens started raining on her. Well, where else would the mud have come from? By the look and feel of things, it was liable to start snowing pretty damn soon. Wouldn’t that be fun, when she was living under canvas?
And speaking of shit . . . The wind blew harder, from out of the west. It brought the stink of row upon row of outhouses. Running water? A sewage system? It was to laugh. How long since cholera last broke out in the land of the free and the home of the brave? How long till it did again? The only thing Vanessa could do about it was hope she didn’t get sick.
“Wow!” Rob said, and then, “Oh, wow!”
Justin Nachman nodded. “This is white like white on rice.” They’d both seen snow before, on Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles’ earlier winter forays into the cold parts of the country. Only this wasn’t winter, and Rob didn’t think anyone this side of an Eskimo had ever seen snow like his.
Justin’s thoughts ran along different, though related, lines. He was driving, and had his nose about six inches from the windshield—it looked that way to Rob, anyhow—to try to see out better. He said, “I keep expecting to spot a St. Bernard by the side of the road. I wouldn’t mind, either. A slug of brandy right now would go down nice.”
“Uh-huh.” Rob nodded. The SUV’s heater was doing its brave best, but how long would that stay good enough? He had no idea what the outside temperature was, but he would have bet dollars to dill pickles he’d never been anywhere colder. “You might want to be careful if you do see a St. Bernard,” he added. “This is Maine, remember. Stephen King country. It could be Cujo.”
“You know how to cheer a guy up, don’t you?” Justin said.
The wipers on the SUV went back and forth, back and forth. So far, they were staying pretty much even with the swirling snow. Rob just hoped they could keep doing it. Justin had the lights on, but sensibly kept them on low beam. All the blowing white would have reflected brights straight back into his face, making it even harder for him to see where he was going.
“Hey, there are worse things than giant rabid dogs.” Rob was determined to be helpful—or something like that. “Maybe some vampires from ’Salem’s Lot still flitting around.”
“It’s daytime,” Justin pointed out.
“Oh, yeah. That’s really gonna bother ’em in weather like this,” Rob said. “Besides, nowadays they probably wear shades and smear themselves with SPF 50 sunscreen. Using technology to solve problems. That’s what engineering’s all about.”
“Thank you, Albert Speer.” Justin gave a straight-armed salute truncated by the SUV’s roof.
Rob had only a vague notion who Albert Speer was. A Nazi: what more did you need to know? “That wasn’t him,” he said. “That was Professor Dinwiddie, explaining why engineering majors should be proud of what they were doing.”
“And are you proud?”
“I’m so fucking proud, I play bass in Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles so I never have to worry about another circuit board as long as I live.”
“Sounds about right,” Justin agreed. “Now where the hell are we?”
Rob grabbed the trusty road atlas. “We got off I-95 at Newport, right?”
“Right.” Justin’s head bobbed up and down. “Maine roads suck, you know?”
“Now that you mention it, yes,” Rob said. Once you got off the Interstate, you fell back in time, probably back to the days before Beaver Cleaver was even a glint in Ward’s eye. Two-lane winding blacktop roads, too many of which hadn’t been resurfaced for a long, long time . . . California, it wasn’t.
“And we’re heading north up be-yoo-tiful Route 7,” Justin went on.
“Roger,” Rob said. “With a little luck, Biff and Charlie are, too.”
“Or what would be beautiful Route 7 if I could see through this goddamn snow any farther than I can piss,” Justin said. “And we passed through the grand metropolis of Corinna, otherwise known as a wide spot in the road.”
“We sure did.” Rob started singing “Corina, Corina.” The way he sang showed why he played bass. Then he looked at the map again. “And wementire coming up on lovely, romantic Dexter. Dexter is a bigger dot than Corinna. Not a big dot, mind you, but a bigger one. Might even be big enough for a traffic light or two.”
“Wowww!” The way Justin brought it out, he might have been stoned. He might have been, but he wasn’t, or Rob didn’t think he was. Driving while loaded was more trouble than it was worth. Being a cop’s kid, Rob had impressed that on the band. The amount of dope he smoked when he wasn’t driving also impressed, if in a different way.
But the
Wowww!
wasn’t undeserved. A Maine town big enough for stoplights was well on its way to cityhood . . . or, more likely, had been the same size for the past seventy-five years. This part of the country wasn’t into cancerous growth like California.
Wowww!
wasn’t undeserved. A Maine town big enough for stoplights was well on its way to cityhood . . . or, more likely, had been the same size for the past seventy-five years. This part of the country wasn’t into cancerous growth like California.
They drove past a roadside traffic sign. It was a yellow diamond, there and gone again in the snow. You might have seen the like back home. But no traffic sign in California bore the silhouette of a big old deer with honking antlers. “Bullwinkle crossing,” Rob said: it wasn’t the first moose sign they’d spotted.
“There you go.” Justin nodded. “Enough signs, though. I want to see some more real moose.”
“Supposed to be bunches of ’em over by Greenville. They do tours,” Rob said.
“The mooses do?” Now Justin sounded surprised—and with reason. He slowed down some more, and he hadn’t been going real fast to begin with.
“Um, no.” Rob pondered antecedents.
“Well, that’s a relief, anyhow,” Justin said. “I think the snow’s getting worse.”
“I didn’t think it could,” Rob said, not wanting to admit he was right.
“Yeah, well . . .” Justin took a hand off the wheel for a vague gesture. “Not like we’ll have to worry about global warming for a while. We should’ve torched more dinosaurs while we had the chance.”
At the moment, what they had to worry about was staying on the road and not drifting onto the shoulder—when there was a shoulder. Some of the yellow signs that didn’t warn about moose did let you know when there wasn’t. What happened when you went off the road there? Rob had no trouble finding an answer: you flipped over and burst into flames, that was what.
“Stick to the paving,” he urged.
“Yes, Mommy. I’m working on it, believe me,” Justin answered. Rob shut up.
They finally made it into Dexter. It was indeed a town of some stature: two or three traffic lights, two gas stations (a sure sign it was no dipshit village), a church with a tall white steeple, a graveyard now blanketed in snow, and, along with the Subway that seemed to be far and away the most common fast-food joint in this part of Maine, a mom-and-pop Chinese restaurant.
“I wonder what Chinese food tastes like in the middle of moose country,” Rob remarked.
“I dunno, but an hour after you eat some you’re curious again,” Justin said.
“I’ve had some shit do that to me, but never the goddamn beef chow mein,” Rob said.
Which, of course, made Justin break into “Werewolves of London.” Warren Zevon wasn’t exactly a spiritual father to Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles, but he was no further removed than spiritual uncle. And the kind of almost-fame he’d won was at the top end of what they could hop? Rob hadr.
Even if Dexter was a fair-sized place by the standards of Maine away from the Interstate, rolling through it took only a few minutes. Then they were out in the country again, with snow-covered meadows and fields going back from the increasingly snow-covered road to the snow-draped pines. Sometimes, for variety’s sake, the snow-covered pines came right up to the edge of the road. No need for the NO SHOULDER signs on those stretches; it was pretty obvious.
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