Last Gasp (35 page)

“But if we’re drifting with it ...” Elaine said.

“Yeah. Well, nothing for it, honey, but to wait and see.” He put his arm around her, but his skin felt clammy, like the physical manifestation of her own fear, and Elaine didn’t feel comforted.

Jay found a grin to cheer her. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” But when he tried to laugh it came out a hoarse choking sound, like the gasp of a dying man.

The man, woman, and boy strolled along the broad strip of dazzling white sand. They wore face masks and bright-orange compressed-air cylinders slung on their backs. The line of empty-eyed concrete towers on their left had once been busy tourist hotels, but they were now derelict and vandalized; had been for several years since Miami Beach was evacuated.

The “sea” moved hardly at all. From its scummy cracked surface bubbles of methane and sulfur belched into the mix of gases that had become the unbreathable atmosphere at the tip of southern Florida.

Chase stepped over a heap of decaying seaweed that straggled along the beach as far as the eye could see and held out his hand to steady Cheryl. The slim sixteen-year-old boy, almost as tall as his father, leaped over it and bounded up the shallow slope of sand, not even breathing hard. “You came here before, didn’t you, when it was a holiday resort?” Dan asked.

“Yes, just once, the year before you were born. Your mother and I drove down from New York and stayed for three days.” Chase grinned at his son through the curved faceplate. “Come to think of it, you were probably conceived here.”

“What?” Dan gazed around in disgust, wrinkling his nose. “I hope not. Not here.”

Chase studied the row of concrete hulks and pointed one out. “There, that one. Twelfth floor, Holiday Inn, Collins and Twenty-second Street.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“That’s where we stayed right enough—though I can’t vouch for the conception theory.” Chase winked at Cheryl as they walked arm in arm up the slope, their protective PVC coveralls crackling and rasping from the friction.

“Do you think anyone still lives here?” Dan asked curiously. His thick black hair sprouted in clumps through the mask’s nylon webbing.

“I don’t see how they can, do you? This part of Florida and the states bordering the Gulf have been designated Official Devastated Areas. They say that pollution in the Gulf is even worse than on this coast.”

“I wanted to visit New Orleans,” Dan sighed. “I suppose there’s no chance of that, is there?”

“Not if you were hoping to see the Old French Quarter,” Cheryl said. “Most of what you’ve seen in movies and photographs isn’t there anymore. Downtown New Orleans is one solid algae bloom feeding off industrial sludge, and the rest of Louisiana is buried in protozoic slime. You can forget Basin Street, Dan.”

“Everything I want to see isn’t there anymore,” the boy complained. “I suppose the Grand Canyon has been filled up with junked cars and Yellowstone Park is a refugee camp!”

It was too uncomfortably near the truth to be taken as a joke, and neither Chase nor Cheryl cracked a smile.

From the highest point on the beach they paused and looked out to sea. There was no horizon. The turgid ocean merged into a milky mist through which the blurred disk of the sun shone blindingly, diffused in a blanket of white. Chase shaded his eyes and wondered which presented the greater menace: the foul ocean, the toxic atmosphere, or the raw sunlight. As the atmosphere’s oxygen content thinned, so too did the ozone layer in the ionosphere, allowing cosmic rays and the more virulent forms of ultraviolet radiation through. Unchecked by the ozone, they could cause skin cancer and genetic damage.

Back on Collins Avenue, the main thoroughfare that ran parallel with the beach, they walked past the broken shop windows and looted debris that covered the pavements. Grass and weeds flourished in the crumbling concrete. Their yellow half-track with the Earth Foundation symbol, green letters in a white oval, was in the parking lot of a shopping mall on Twenty-ninth Street. The vehicle was electrically operated by solar-powered batteries. This far south the internal-combustion engine couldn’t be relied upon; in the new subtropical atmosphere it had become necessary to use rocket-propelled aircraft because of the number of jet- and piston-engined aircraft that had crashed on take-off and landing.

Chase reached up to the recessed handle of the driving cab and a shiny crease appeared in the body panel inches away from his hand. The crack of a rifle shot echoed between the buildings.

Another shot gouged up a chunk of asphalt as they scuttled into the protecting cover of the half-track. Chase released the safety on his eight-cylinder automatic and peered cautiously over the streamlined nacelle of the vehicle.

“Anybody see where the shots came from?” he asked, trying to decide whether it was one sniper or more.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Cheryl said laconically. “I was too busy to notice.”

“Why didn’t they take the half-track while we were on the beach?” Dan said. “We were away nearly an hour.”

Chase wondered about that too. He could only suppose their attackers hadn’t spotted it before—had seen the three of them on the beach and waited for them to return. But that still left an even more puzzling question unanswered. Who could possibly survive in this environment? There might be sufficient food stashed away in the abandoned hotels to last decades, but what the hell did they
breathe?

He ought never to have exposed Cheryl and Dan to this danger. Cursing himself for being such an idiot, he glanced over his shoulder and was taken aback to find his son grinning behind his mask. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

“You kept promising me an interesting trip, Dad. This is the best bit so far.”

“Getting your head blown off is interesting. I see. Pity they haven’t a nuke warhead handy and then we could really enjoy ourselves.” Chase tapped the metal bodywork with the barrel of the automatic. “You do realize this isn’t armor-plated, don’t you? If they hit something vital we could be here for quite some time. Like forever.”

Cheryl had another fear. She was examining the gauge on the end of the rubber tube that was clipped to her harness. “We’ve got twenty minutes supply left, Gavin. Do we climb in and take the chance we can get far enough away before getting hit?”

The half-track was equipped with a regeneration system that filtered the outside air and extracted the oxygen from it. Thus concentrated, this self-contained atmosphere could sustain them indefinitely. But first they had to get inside and seal the doors under the eyes of at least one marksman with a high-powered rifle.

Chase said, “You two climb in while I draw their fire. I’m going to run for that corner—there, by the bank. As soon as I get there, be ready to move. I’ll keep them occupied while you drive the half-track up the avenue. Take one of the streets off to the left, out of their line of sight.”

“Where do we pick you up?” Cheryl said, watching him steadily through the curved faceplate.

“Sound the horn every thirty seconds. I’ll cut down the side streets as soon as you’re clear.”

“If we sound the horn they’ll know where we are,” Dan said. “Then you’ll have to hope I get there first,” Chase said grimly. To Cheryl he said, “Let Dan have your gun. He can keep lookout while you drive.”

Cheryl unbuckled the holster flap and handed over the automatic. “Keep it on safety until
—unless
we need it,” she ordered.

Dan’s dark eyebrows arched. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Do as Cheryl says and don’t play the hero!” Chase snapped. He saw Dan drop his eyes and felt perhaps he’d been too harsh. But dammit, this wasn’t a schoolboy game. Had he been as flippant at Dan’s age? No, there were significant differences between father and son, the casual irresponsibility of youth aside.

“I thought the National Guard was supposed to keep law and order in the Official Devastated Areas,” Cheryl said, craning around the vehicle to get a view of the upper windows on the opposite side of the street.

Chase smiled weakly. “They are, in theory,” he said. “They can’t be everywhere at once, I suppose.”

“Who are they, do you think?” Dan asked.

“I’ve no idea.” Chase checked the magazine and practiced sighting along the burnished barrel. “Cubans maybe. When the rest of the population evacuated the Cubans moved in. There could still be a settlement in one of the hotels. Don’t ask me how they managed to survive because I haven’t the faintest.” He looked up, trying to quell the flutter of panic in his chest. “All right, you two. Ready?”

Cheryl touched his arm with her gloved hand. “Please don’t get shot.”

“That’s odd,” Chase said. “My sentiments exactly.” He crawled on all fours to the rear of the vehicle and crouched next to the links of the half-track. Taking a few deep breaths, he prepared himself to leap and run. The distance was about twenty yards. He glanced over his shoulder. “Get ready.”

Cheryl reached up at arm’s length and gripped the handle. She nodded and Chase sprang out. He ran as swiftly as he could, encumbered by the one-piece coverall and the air tank, swerving and ducking, leaping over piles of congealed rubbish. He was glad he couldn’t smell the stench, which was probably rife with typhus and assorted deadly germs.

Two shots boomed out and reverberated along the street. He didn’t see them strike, but thanked God it wasn’t him. The decomposing corpse of an unidentifiable animal lay in the gutter. He saw a staring yellow eyeball filled with maggots, almost lost his footing as he skidded around the corpse, and staggered the last few yards before flattening himself against the rough stucco wall. The rifle barked again and the plate-glass window on the front of the bank, miraculously preserved until now, shattered and fell with a tremendous crash.

One sniper or more? He still didn’t know. Looking back, he saw that Cheryl had opened the cab door. Once she and Dan were inside the sniper would have a clear shot through the windshield, so now it was up to him to act as decoy. The upper-story windows were his best bet, Chase decided, and stepped into full view, both arms extended, left hand gripping his right wrist, and fired twice. Keep the bastard occupied and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the vehicle. Cheryl and Dan needed those few vital minutes to start up and drive away.

Chase ducked back out of sight. There had been no return of fire and it occurred to him that the sniper wasn’t all that hot. Four—five?— shots and wide of the mark every time. Could be his weapon was old and in poor condition.

Even so, an imbecile with a blunderbuss would have the corner of the bank fixed in his sights by now. He’d be waiting, finger curled lightly on the trigger, for Chase’s next appearance. Time for the old B-movie routine.

He scoured around and found a splintered strut of timber and a piece of checkered material that might once have been on a cafe table. He draped the cloth over the end and poked it out. The bastard was ready and waiting all right—the strut jerked in his hand as a bullet ripped through the cloth and whined away.

Chase dropped to his knees, braced his right shoulder against the wall, and fired twice, then whipped his arm back. As he did so he heard the rattle and clank of the half-track moving away. The electric motor was virtually silent, just a soft pulsing hum. Picking up speed, the vehicle trundled up Collins Avenue, and the sniper reacted with a fusillade of shots. Chase had been expecting it, waiting and watching, and he saw the flare of the rifle in the darkened window directly above the curly x in Roxy’s 101 Varieties Pizza Parlor.

With deliberation he took aim and fired three times. The cry brought gooseflesh to his upper arms and across his shoulders. Not human, surely? More like the screech of a wounded animal.

Sweating and yet cold, Chase flattened himself against the wall and watched the half-track, now a good thirty yards away, turn off at an intersection and disappear from view. He moved off along the side street, staying close to the protective lee of the buildings in case sniping was a popular pastime in the district. Crossing the street at a brisk jog, he turned right into the one parallel with Collins Avenue, glancing into every doorway and shattered shopfront, shoulders hunched as if anticipating at any second a shot zinging out from the ruined buildings.