The Rule of Three (8 page)

“Remember, those checkpoints can’t possibly stop anybody coming in off Mullet Creek or through the woods, or even through the back of the school yard,” Sergeant Evans explained.

“That’s why one of the patrols needs to make regular passes through the field underneath the high-voltage electrical towers that buffers the houses from the highway,” Herb added.

“My patrol will handle that,” O’Malley said. “That field backs onto my house, so I know it pretty well. That’s where I run my dogs and play catch with my kids.”

“Excellent, but just remember we have fifteen hundred houses in this sector because we’re going to patrol over to the other side of Erin Mills Parkway right to Winston Churchill and south all the way to Dundas,” Sergeant Evans explained.

“Are there any civilian checkpoints in any of those other places?” Brett asked.

“Nothing,” Sergeant Evans said. “We have to patrol those neighborhoods, but I want you all to remember where you live, where your families are.”

Everybody silently nodded in agreement.

“I also want you to remember that I don’t want any dead heroes. The only backup you have is the man beside you. If you can’t control or contain a situation, you get away. Come back, get another patrol, but don’t—I repeat, don’t—attempt it alone. As for the civilians, you do what you’re told, you just follow orders.”

“You can count on it,” Mr. Gomez said, and the others agreed.

“Now let’s get going, and let’s be safe out there.”

Everybody got up and walked out of the room. Herb didn’t move—he seemed to be lost in thought—so I stayed put as well. Finally he startled, almost as if he had just noticed they had left, and got up. I trailed after him out the door and onto the driveway.

The four patrols were mounting up. It was almost comical watching the eight men—four in uniform—climb onto or into the little vehicles. The engines started one by one, and the noise was overwhelmingly loud. None of this seemed real. Instead it was like a bad skit on
SNL
or that part of a parade where the Shriners drive those little cars among the floats. But in reality these were the men protecting our entire neighborhood and the neighborhoods beside and below it. All those houses and thousands of people were depending on four cops and four volunteers riding on things that could have been borrowed from a track at an amusement park.

In pairs they slowly started off. People were all out on the streets, some drawn by the noise, and as the group passed they started clapping and cheering. It
was
like a parade.

They reached the corner of Folkway Drive, and one pair headed up the hill toward the mini-mall. The two dirt bikes went off-roading straight north toward the field that held the high-voltage electrical towers alongside the interstate. And two other pairs went down the hill to the east end of Sawmill Valley Road, which looped around the opposite side of our subdivision. The exhaust fumes lingered in the air as the noise dropped off. In the absence of other sounds the high-pitched whine of the dirt bikes could be heard long after they’d disappeared, until finally that faded to nothing as well.

“We’re in a lot better shape than we were last night,” I said to Herb.

“We
have
to be better each night to stay even.”

“Because you think each night is going to get worse, right?”

“Either things get fixed or they get worse.”

He didn’t need to say anything else. I knew what he was thinking, even if I wasn’t ready to believe he was right.

9

The next morning I walked outside to check the weather. It was overcast and warm. I was glad we weren’t having a cold spring this year, so heating wasn’t an issue. Two little minibikes sat in the driveway. Brett was upstairs sleeping in our guest room. He’d told me before he turned in that none of the patrols ran into anything too bad. Maybe what had happened at the mini-mall was a one-time thing, I decided.

Almost on cue, Herb came out of his house.

“Good morning,” he called out. “What would you think about a little drive?”

“Do you need more supplies for your pool?” I asked.

He laughed. “I might have a lot more chlorine than I need right now.”

“So where are we driving to?”

“Just around. I need to see what’s going on out there. Do you have anyplace in particular you’d like to go?” he asked.

“Well, I’d like to check on a friend.”

“We could go out to her farm,” Herb said.

I gave him a questioning look. How did he know what I was thinking about?

“I’m just not sure if I should go that far and leave the kids here.”

“We could take them along,” Herb said. “Rachel told me you promised to bring her horseback riding out there.”

“I did, but I’m not sure what my mother would say.”

“She asked you, and me, to watch them, so we’ll watch them. She didn’t say anything about watching them here.”

“But is it safe?” I asked.

“It’s safe. We could even bring along somebody else.”

“I’m sure Todd would come,” I said. “He’s probably already getting restless.”

“I was thinking Brett,” Herb said. “Although we could bring them both.”

“We could.” An extra person would be good—especially one with a gun. I was allowed to be a little paranoid.

“How much gas do you have?”

“Not much.”

“Good, because the gas station is the first place I want to stop.”

“But the pumps don’t work,” I said.

“Gas can be siphoned up from the storage tanks. Tell the twins. Then you go and get Todd, and I’ll meet you out on your driveway in thirty minutes.”

*   *   *

Danny didn’t want to come, telling me that since he wasn’t a girl, he wasn’t interested in riding any horses. I wasn’t a girl either, but a girl was certainly motivating me to ride a horse. I’d never actually ridden one before, but how hard could it be?

With Danny in tow, I’d gone down the street to Todd’s house. His mother was puttering in the garden and she agreed to watch Danny. He actually seemed happy to help her in the garden. Todd’s father was in his woodworking shop in the garage and waved as I went in the front door. He was a banker by profession but a master craftsman with wood. Using hand tools, he’d made half the furniture in their house—including the bed Todd was sleeping in when I got there. I woke him up and he declined my offer by tossing a pillow at me, swearing, turning on his side, and pulling the covers over his head.

Herb and Brett were waiting as I walked back to the house alone. Rachel was still inside trying to find something horsey to wear.

“While you’re waiting, I was wondering if we could take a look at your ultralight,” Herb said.

“You have a plane?” Brett asked.

“My dad and I are assembling it, so it’s not quite finished yet. I’ll show you.”

I opened the garage door. It sat on a trolley waiting for the wings to be added. I couldn’t help thinking about my father, hoping that he was all right, wishing he was here to take care of us. Strange, but I felt like if he had been here that we’d be safer, somehow.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Brett said.

“You don’t need much to fly,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive. It wasn’t just his words but the look on his face.

“You’ve flown it?” he asked in amazement.

“I’ve flown
in
one—it was a two-man ultralight just like this, and my dad was at the controls. You use them for training.”

“That’s right—your father is a pilot,” Brett said.

“And so is Adam,” Herb said.

“I’m still a few lessons away from my solo, but soon, you know, when things get back to normal.”

“Your ultralight doesn’t have computers, does it?” Herb asked.

“None. Everything is simple. It even runs on automotive fuel. It could get up into the air.”

“You know, being able to fly would be a huge advantage,” Herb continued.

I thought about my father again. If he was here we could get it into the air almost immediately and he could fly it. Then I thought about if the ultralight was with him. Even halfway across the country he could fly home in a few days, a week at most.

“All that’s left is to attach the wings, and it could be up there,” I said.

“Are they difficult to fly?” Herb asked.

“They’re not that difficult if you already know how to fly,” I explained. “You learn in a plane with a pilot, and then once you know what you’re doing you can fly an ultralight.”

“So, technically, you could fly this thing,” he said.

“Technically, yes.”

“Very interesting.”

A chill went up my spine. Was he suggesting that I fly it? But then again, that was why Dad and I were building it, to fly it. Flying an ultralight without training was difficult, dangerous, and maybe even a little crazy, but I’d certainly spent enough time on an ultralight simulator and I did know the controls of this thing as well as any pilot except my father. I
could
fly it.

“But first things first—let’s go for that drive. Brett, you’re carrying, right?” Herb asked.

Brett, who was wearing civilian clothes, pulled open his jacket to reveal a badge on his belt and his service revolver in a side holster. “I try never to leave home without it.”

“I’m ready to go!” Rachel called out as she rounded the corner.

“Then we better get going,” Herb said. “We need to get back before dark.”

Rachel climbed into the backseat of the Omega along with Brett, and Herb was in the passenger seat.

I was backing out of my driveway when somebody appeared in my rearview mirror and I slammed on the brakes. It was Todd, and he came to my open window.

“Are you trying to get yourself run over?” I asked.

“Not only can I move faster than your car, but if it did hit me it probably would have broken or stalled out,” he joked.

“Don’t insult the best car in the neighborhood.”

“Think again. That judge over on Trapper Crescent has a ’57 Chevy and Mr. Langston on Wheelwright drives a ’66 Camaro. He gave my dad and me a ride yesterday.”

“Okay, fine,
one
of the best cars in the neighborhood.”

“I changed my mind. I’m coming along,” Todd said. “Once you woke me up I was instantly bored. If I’m not careful my mother will have me working in the garden or babysitting your little brother. Parents are so much easier to deal with when they go away to work.”

Before I could even think to answer he pulled open my door, shoved my seat forward so that I was squished into the steering wheel, and climbed into the back.

“We’re going horseback riding,” Rachel said.

“Fantastic. I hate horses, but I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.”

I was happy enough to have him along, and not just because he was my friend. Another person, another big person, could only help.

We rumbled up the street and past the mini-mall. With the exception of the plywood covering two of the windows of the supermarket, it looked normal. I knew Ernie would be open for food distribution later that day. It would follow the same pattern. Nobody would go hungry in the neighborhood, and because of the system Herb had put in place it would all be orderly.

The checkpoint was just up ahead. They’d taken patio furniture from the nearby houses and set it down in the middle of the intersection. There were lots of people there—more than the eight men assigned—women and children, including a few kids riding bikes and some playing Frisbee. It was like they’d set up a picnic in the middle of the street.

“Quite a little street party going on,” Herb said.

“Do you want them to stop?” Brett asked.

“No, it’s probably better this way. More people being there provides more protection. Let them enjoy.”

I tapped on my horn and everybody turned to us. A couple of the men on the line waved, and then four others picked up a picnic table and moved it out of the way so we could pass. I eased through the intersection and turned into the gas station. I drove around the big tanker truck and went to pull in beside one of the pumps.

“No, park it right in front,” Herb said.

I came to a stop beside the entrance. Herb climbed out. He had a big smile on his face and waved to the man inside, who gave a little wave and a nervous smile in reply.

“Open the door!” Herb called out. “We need a fill-up.”

Reluctantly the man came to the door and opened it a crack. “Sorry, but without electricity there are no pumps.”

“We could siphon up the gas, and of course we’d pay. Straight cash.” Herb produced a thick wad of cash from his pocket.

“With that amount of money you could buy half the gas in that tanker truck!” the man exclaimed.

“It’s probably a stroke of bad luck for you that that truck was here when everything stopped working.”

“It’s not my truck, but now it’s like I’m responsible for it.”

“And it’s bad enough that you have to be responsible for all of the gas in the holding tanks below. How big are your tanks?”

“Between regular, ultra, and diesel they can hold almost twelve thousand gallons.”

“What’s in there now?” Herb asked.

“Close to ten thousand. I don’t even know why the truck was here to begin with. My tanks weren’t low enough to need a refill.”

“This fuel makes you a target for looters and vandals,” Herb said.

“That’s why I’ve been sleeping in the building. Somebody has to watch it.”

“I guess so. Now let’s get some of that gas in our tank.”

*   *   *

We drove away and the man waved and offered a big smile. Herb and the gas station manager had used a piece of garden hose and a foot pump to siphon the gas from the holding tanks and into my car. While that was happening Herb had talked to the man, Mr. Singh, about buying more gas—much more gas—had gotten to know him, and had offered for the sentries at the intersection to help watch the station and for the police patrols to go past regularly. He’d also gotten a candy bar for each of us.

Herb had done a lot more than just fill my tank.