What Came After (9 page)

By and by the farthest suburbs and country towns closed ranks, shunning outsiders who arrived without the skills that they had come to prize. Mechanical aptitude. Physical strength. Plain endurance. People sold off what land they owned to PharmAgra and signed PharmAgra contracts and turned their full attention to the soil again, with the kind of focus that comes only from desperation. Sharecroppers raising poisoned plants and selling them under contract and buying them back again sterilized. Which left outsiders, those who had once believed in their own potential to rise up and those who now believed no more, to suffer and weaken and perish. The time of the Great Dying. At least here in the North some survived, for there were cities to supply. The South was different. The South took it harder and the South died faster. Ruined not by aggression but by neglect.

Weller and Penny walked on. Over collapsed highways and around treacherous sinkholes and across wide intersections dotted with cars and trucks that had been left where they stood when the last of the gas in their tanks had run out. Rusted hulks propped on bare axles in little shining pools of shattered glass. They walked down railroad tracks and through switching yards jammed with railcars of every description, most of them lived-in at one time or another but all of them empty now. Weller telling his child that once upon a time people and goods had ridden these rails to pretty much everywhere. Children have big imaginations, but she couldn’t imagine that.

They heard Ninety-Five before they saw it. The familiar roar of trucks, echoing down these empty canyons. The land was flat here, flatter than back home, and the road was elevated. They saw it first from between rows of buildings that might have been either commercial or industrial, it was hard to say. There was no indication other than a number of scarred places high up on certain walls where signage had been taken down a long time ago. Salvaged for glass and metal and plastics. Plastics that had become as precious as gemstones for a little while, back when the factories that made them were closed for good.

*

Every National Motors highway had a checkpoint every fifty miles. More regular than the old rest stops had been and existing for a different reason. There was nothing about them of rest or convenience. Just a McDonald’s counter and restrooms with one or two shower stalls smelling of bleach. A single diesel pump out front. Otherwise it was all company business. Scanners and cameras and men with guns. Building these checkpoints out here on this regular plan had been trivial once the suburbs were empty. Zoning. There wasn’t any zoning. Not in the Zone.

They drew near to the highway not far past a checkpoint and walked along on the southbound side for a little, hearing the trucks rumble overhead, watching for a place where they might find access. A grassy berm leading up. Everything was fenced. National Motors fences with that big red star logo. Weller found an accessible place just far enough from the checkpoint but not too far, and he scrambled up with Penny right behind him. He knelt by the fence to open his bag for the wirecutters. One eye on the road. The spot was narrow and Penny stood beside him and a truck appeared in the distance and they dropped down flat in the tall grass. Invisible enough, since the truck didn’t slow or stop or sound its air horn. He got to his knees and put out his hand to steady himself on the chain link and as he touched it voltage ran through his body. Not enough to kill anybody but enough to discourage an ordinary man. He sat dazed. Shook himself. Told Penny to go back down into the swale. Wait there. Don’t touch anything. Then he cut strips from the blue plastic tarp for insulation and doubled them over and doubled them over again and used them to grip the wirecutters. There was still current coming through, but not so much. A buzzing. He made a line of cuts and turned to look at Penny looking back at him. Trying to. He was certainly just a blur against the sun. Her own father just a blur. He turned back and made more cuts and pushed the fencing back and called her up and had her hug herself and put her through. The needle’s eye.

The very first truck to come along stopped to pick them up. Weller holding his daughter in the crook of his elbow and sticking out a thumb the old way. That big white cat showing on the back of her pack. The truck was barreling south toward the Mason-Dixon line, loaded up and sealed tight. A National Motors truck on a National Motors highway. The driver threw open the passenger door and called down, “Jump in quick, buddy. I’m on a schedule, in case you ain’t heard.”

His name was Joe and he’d aspired to this job all his life and he loved to talk, which is why he picked them up in the first place. Risking it. Born into a Management family in Queens. His father a doorman in a Manhattan apartment building and his mother a housekeeper and he and his brother both aspiring to hit the road at the first opportunity. Get out. He checked his watch and compared it against a readout on the dashboard and did a quick calculation on his fingers. Stepped on the gas. Watched the speedometer rise, the arrow pointing a few notches past one marker that was bigger than the rest and flagged in bright red. He squinted into the distance and asked Penny if she saw any trucks ahead of them and she smiled and shrugged. Shy and half blind. Weller answered for her. Said no. Nothing as far as he could see and he could see a long way from up here in the cab.

The driver said fine. That was all right by him. He didn’t want to be gaining on somebody who was sticking to the rules. Fifty miles an hour come hell or high water, if they’d excuse his French.

Weller tilted his head and looked over at the speedometer. Sixty-five. He said it felt like they were flying. Flying up here in this high cab at this high speed. Flying at
any
speed, come to that.

The driver laughed and said aww, you’ll get used to it. He kept it pegged right where it was and checked his watch again and looked at some readouts on the dash. Drove with his tongue between his teeth, concentrating. Counting down after a while and then easing off the pedal and letting the truck slow back down to fifty on its own. Tapping the brakes just once when it got close. Checking everything one last time.

“How about that,” he said. “Looks like we’ll hit Stamford right on the button. When the time comes I’ll give you two the word and you can climb back into the bunk and nobody’ll be the wiser.” Grinning like he’d gotten away with something, which he had.

He said they used to do this with GPS but the satellites were down half the time now, so that was the end of that. Sunspots or whatever. Maybe they were just wearing out. Did things wear out in space? It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t like there was weather up there or anything to bump into. As he understood it, there wasn’t even any air. It was a vacuum, like the vacuum inside a can. A vacuum preserved things, didn’t it? A week from now this load right here would be divided up into a million vacuum cans and it would last forever.

Like he said, he loved to talk.

Anyway, security just timed you now that they couldn’t trust the satellites. Fifty miles in between checkpoints at fifty miles an hour and you’d best be there on the dot. Show up late without a flat tire or something else on that order to show for it, and there’d be hell to pay. Excuse his French.

Weller asked about the truck. A great sleek red Peterbilt as big as a mountain and moving. More than moving. Lapping up the miles. The driver said it was a 387 and it had come off the line in oh-eight, which made it barely broken in, considering. Compared against the other rolling stock out here. Junk on wheels. Antiques held together with bailing twine and chewing gum. This baby had a sleeper in the back and a Cummins engine under the hood with 450 horses pulling. Eighteen forward speeds.

He’d been assigned to her for a long time. It was all about seniority. You minded your business and you rose up through the ranks and your working conditions improved. This truck right here for example. This interior. They called it Prestige Gray. How about that. Some of these young guys out there starting now, he didn’t know how they’d ever make it. How they’d stand the conditions day after day and how they’d earn their minimums given the amount of time they spent broken down by the side of the road. Waiting for a tow or whatever.

Penny said her father could help. Her father could fix anything.

The driver said sure. Gave her a pat on the head. Said man oh man I pity the younger generation. Said you two ought to count yourselves lucky for getting a ride with me. Asked where were they going, anyhow?

“New York,” said Weller.

The driver shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Everybody wants to see New York. Like I said, I grew up around there. Believe me, it ain’t worth the trouble.”

“In our case, I think it is.” Not sure how much he wanted to say.

The driver glanced from the road to Weller. “By the looks of it, you been chased out of nicer places already.” Pointing at his own neck to indicate the cut in Weller’s. “It ain’t none of my business,” he said, “but without ID, you won’t get very far.”

“I’ve never had ID. Born and raised in the Zone.”

If the driver was surprised he didn’t show it. He didn’t recoil the way some might have. He just drove on. “Worse luck for you,” he said after a minute. “If I had time to slow down again between here and Stamford I’d let you off. Send you back home before you get yourself shot or something.”

Penny’s eyes got big.

“Not shot. I didn’t mean shot. That’s a figure of speech.” He put out a hand and Penny retreated into her father’s arms. “You know what a figure of speech is, honey?”

Nothing.

“All I mean is it’s a tough town. Tough on strangers. Tough on generics.”

Weller opened his pack and dug around. Located the Polaroid picture and showed it. He said they weren’t entirely strangers. Not to everybody in New York.

“Jesus,” said the trucker. “That was you?”

“Yes sir, it was.”

“Honest? Holy shit. I mean
holy shit.
That was all over the news.”

“Really.”

“Everywhere. The TV news. That was a close call, buddy.”

“It wasn’t such a big deal. A bent sway bar. A couple of loose bolts.”

“Not for them. I mean a close call for you. They’d scrambled Black Rose, for Christ’s sake. They were in the air.”

“I guess.”

“Oh, yeah. They were on their way, and those old boys don’t leave much behind when they’re finished, if you get my drift.” Tilting his head toward Penny. Emphasizing what he wasn’t saying.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Man oh man. You’re one lucky guy.”

“Let’s hope it holds.” Looking at the Polaroid one more time and then sliding it into his pocket. “Carmichael said he owes me one.”

“He said that, did he?”

“He did.”

“Well.”

“I mean to call in the favor. Get her some help with her eyes.” Penny on his lap, settling back.

The driver nodded, noncommittal. “That’d sure be nice,” he said. “Those boys do have all the good doctors sewn up. In a manner of speaking.” Fingering his neck. “Did you know they keep all their records on board these days? Right here? It’s the latest thing. Myself, I’ve just got the regular financial chip. Company issued. ID, banking and like that. I’ve been saving for an upgrade, but you know how that goes.”

“I guess I do.”

“Money’s always tight.”

“If you’ve got any at all.”

“Them what has, gets.”

“Don’t I know it.” Bouncing Penny a little. “That’s why we’re going to see that Mr. Carmichael, isn’t it, honey? Because he’s the one who can help if anybody can. And he made us a promise.”

The driver studied the road. “One thing you learn growing up Management,” he said after a little.

“What’s that?”

“Ownership’s got a real short memory.”

They rode along quietly for a while. The driver lighting up a cigarette and opening the window. The occasional crackle of a voice over the CB radio until he turned it off. Weller taking Penny’s head softly between his hands and turning it to point out landmarks along the highway. That’s the mouth of a river emptying into the sound. That used to be a railroad bridge. Those big towers marching along one after another used to carry electricity. Electricity in cables strung from one to the next like a cat’s cradle.

They drew near a bridge with a double row of red lights blinking overhead as if somebody had won a jackpot. The driver nodded toward it, his face reflecting the red lights. “Security breach,” he said. “They know you’re in here. Not you exactly. But they know somebody’s in here who shouldn’t be.” Nodding like it gave him satisfaction. Like he took a little pride in it. The truck passing under the bridge now and the lights gone.

Weller tightened his grip on Penny. “So what’s next.” Thinking how he’d cut that electrical fence. That was it. That was how they knew.

“Next? Nothing. Nothing’s next. People keep an eye out is all.” Looking straight ahead. Driving. Checking his mirrors with the lights fading behind. “You’ll be on your own after the GWB,” he said after a while. “I go west and you go east.”

“The GWB.”

“The bridge. The George Washington Bridge. They closed all the tunnels down a few years back and there’s just the two bridges anymore. Brooklyn and the GWB. I’ll drop you on the Jersey side, and after that you’re on your own.”