“Something special’s waiting at the end of the lane. Come see for yourselves.”
17
“I think I just fell in love,” said Nell Bennett.
Standing patiently in the shadows were a pair of dapple gray horses, warmly attired in red woolen blankets. They were hitched to a carriage complete with a tarpaulin cover, side curtains and headlamps fitted with candles.
The nearest horse lowered its head and gravely accepted Nell’s gentle caress.
Gerry said proudly, “Allow me to introduce the River Valley Transportation Service, featuring the first two-horsepower bus in the state, powered by Jupiter and Juno. Shay Mulligan’s extended the stable behind his house to give them a home, and I’ve built a barn for the carriage.”
Nell’s eyes were sparkling. “They’re the most beautiful animals I’ve ever seen. Tell me about them, Gerry.”
“Well, they’re Quarter Horses, a mare and a gelding, and—”
“What’s the other three quarters?” Jack interrupted.
“Quarter Horse is the name of the breed. They were developed in the Old West for racing a quarter of a mile, but they can do almost anything and they have great dispositions.”
“Last year my husband didn’t know a martingale from a nightingale,” Gloria said. “Now he’s an expert on horses.”
“I’m not, but I’m learning more every day. A martingale is a piece of horse equipment; there’s an interesting piece of trivia for you. My wife didn’t know it either. Leaving RobBenn was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’ve gone into business with Shay Mulligan and it’s a whole new world, a hundred times better than being cooped up in a laboratory eight hours a day breathing fumes that would poison me in the long run. In the beginning I spent several weeks walking all over town, selecting the most likely routes, but now I ride in style.”
“What are you using for tires?”
“You would ask that, Jack. No tires; the wheels are iron and wood, same as they were before the discovery of rubber.” Gerry put a proprietary hand on a blanket-covered flank. “Old-fashioned, the entire rig. No steering wheel, no radio, no GPS. But it works, even on asphalt.”
“You don’t mind the smell of horse manure?”
“At least breathing it won’t harm my lungs,” said Gerry, “and my wife puts the manure on her roses. She says it’s the best fertilizer there is.”
“Is this horse-bus idea actually going to make money?”
“I sure hope so. We’re doing it by subscription. Frank Auerbach printed up advertising leaflets and I distributed them along the route, telling people they can buy a ten-ride or a thirty-ride ticket. The money’s coming in already. A lot of it’s in coins, but that’s okay, we’ll even take barter. Harriet Deane’s paying two dozen eggs for a ride into town tomorrow to buy chicken feed.”
Nell turned to Jack. “If you have money for the tickets I’d like to take my inaugural ride now.”
* * *
In the gathering twilight Sycamore River looked peaceful. Without their wallscreens some of the townspeople were going to bed earlier. Others stayed up reading. Or talking. Discovering the pleasure of after-dinner conversation.
The clip-clop of hoofbeats in the street brought curious faces to windows. Jack and Nell waved.
All of the children and most of the adults waved back.
Louise Mortenson ran out with a handful of carrots for the horses. When Gerry explained the bus service she went back into the house for money to buy tickets. “I like to do my grocery shopping on Thursdays,” she said. “Can I be a regular customer?”
Gloria fished a pencil and notebook out of her handbag and jotted down the information.
Meanwhile Gerry struck a match to light the headlamps. “Candles aren’t really necessary,” he told his passengers, “because horses can see in the dark better than we do. Gloria thinks they’re a nice touch, though.”
“So does Bill Burdick,” said Jack, “but I wouldn’t put much faith in those, if I were you. Commercial candles are made of paraffin and that’s a petroleum product, so sooner or later … fill in the blanks. Beeswax candles would be a better option if you can find them.”
“These are burning just fine.”
“Now they are; many things are still working ‘just fine.’ But more and more are giving out on us every day, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Beeswax candles, huh? Where would I get those?”
“I’ll look into it,” promised Jack Reece.
When the carriage halted in front of the apartment building he accompanied Nell up the stairs to her door.
“I enjoyed that a lot,” she said. “Would you…”
“Would I what?”
“Like to come in for a nightcap? Or is that too old-fashioned for words?”
“It’s been an old-fashioned evening, Nell, and there is nothing I would enjoy more, but I … well, some other time, okay?”
Jack Reece had never turned his back on an invitation before.
He was surprised at himself.
* * *
Lila Ragland was not troubled by the problem with tires. She hitched a ride with a truck driver making deliveries from Sycamore River to Benning, and told him to leave her at the foot of Edgar Tilbury’s road. The demand was not what he had expected. The trucker had been given the impression that he would be rewarded with sexual favors at the end of the trip. When he reminded her of this she gave him a look that chilled the man to his marrow.
“I would sooner slit your throat,” said Lila.
He could not open the door of the truck cab fast enough.
The red flag was up on the mailbox. Lila capriciously flipped it down before she entered the lane. The fields on either side of the fence contained nothing but grass. She might have been miles from any other human being.
She stopped long enough to run a comb through her hair and lick her lips. She did not plan to use feminine wiles on Tilbury; the gesture was automatic. No matter what façade she presented to the world she had her pride.
Pride had sustained Lila when nothing else did.
When she knocked on the front door Edgar Tilbury opened it at once.
“The bad penny’s back, Edgar.”
He squinted at her from beneath tangled brows. “Not a bad penny; maybe a tarnished silver dollar. I got your letter with your address, I was planning to come into town for you. You know what’s been going on?”
“People are getting very tense. It’s happening everywhere, I imagine. Fistfights are breaking out for no reason, even in the middle of town in the middle of the day. People expect something awful’s going to happen and they’re keyed up for it.”
“That’s a pretty accurate assessment,” he affirmed. “Come on in and we’ll talk. You bring anything with you? Any luggage?”
“I’ve only got my essentials in my handbag, I didn’t expect to stay. I just wanted to see if we could do anything with my AllCom.”
“There’s an old Chinese saying, Lila: Save someone’s life and you’re obligated to care for them forever.”
“You didn’t save my life,” she pointed out. “I dragged myself out of the river.”
“The money you took was a lifesaver at the time, wasn’t it?”
“Point taken.”
“Well, you’re here now. Maybe you’d like to see the extension I told you about. Come on out with me.”
He led the way to the barn on the edge of the hill. The size of the building was out of proportion to the house. It was more like the huge barns common to New England or Pennsylvania Dutch country. Tilbury did not slide open the heavy main door that accommodated carriages and hay trucks, but opened the small one to the side. A rush of chilly air welcomed them when they went in.
“You know much about the First World War?” he asked.
“Only what they taught us in school.”
“You learn the really important things on your own, Lila, but you already know that. What I’m about to show you was taken fro
m the plans of the world’s leading authorities on building underground. During that war the Germans constructed an elaborate system of tunnels below the surface while the allied forces were floundering around in flooded trenches aboveground. The German troops had more than safety; they had comfort. Light, heat, ventilation, sanitation and good food. I spent months studying the blueprints the Allies discovered after the war. The Great War. The War to End All Wars. Ha!
“That war’s principal contribution to mankind wasn’t peace, it was military mechanization on a grand scale. And the genius of the tunnels. I can’t find fault with mechanization because it made it possible for me to build my own version of them; never could have done it with a pick and shovel. Not that I needed muscle power; everything was purchased, even the silence of the contractors. You said it yourself; people will let you do anything if you have enough money. I was grieving and I was lonely and I wanted something to keep me occupied. Not just building carriages, but a real big project.”
Lila gazed at the hay-strewn floor of the barn. “Do you mean that’s here? Is this your ‘hole in the ground’?”
“No place better. Who’s going to suspect anything underneath this barn? Originally my tunnels were fitted out with their own power system and two large generators, but the Change is playing havoc with so much, I don’t trust them. The German tunnel builders allowed for every contingency and I’m going to do what they did: provide myself with alternate sources of light and heat.”
“You’re amazing.”
“What I am is too old to be taken in by flattery. I’m not amazing, I just use my head. When I was looking for land to buy I learned this acreage has an unusually deep artesian well, and that decided me. The water tests almost one hundred percent pure. The tunnel nearest the house goes straight to the well, so fresh water is available all the time. The most distant tunnel has little chambers based on the ‘sleeping pods’ in Japanese hotels, and eventually leads to the garderobe.”
“Which is?”
“Was. The toilet in a medieval castle. They worked on gravity, one natural law you can’t break. Behind the barn the land falls away sharply before rising to the next hill. The toilet is positioned over a slanting hole that empties into a fast-flowing stream between the two hills. The whole setup’s too far away to pollute my well or any of my neighbors’.”
“Very clever, if not original.”
“You want original? I’ve adapted the ventilation system prairie dogs use in the Nevada desert. Outside the barn are above-ground apertures concealed in dead trees, behind bushes and so forth. They’re set at different heights so fresh air blowing over the higher ones forces stale air out of the lower ones.”
“I’m a survivor and I’ve heard of survivalists, but you’re the real thing, Edgar. Aren’t you afraid I might give away your secret?”
He picked up a wisp of hay from the floor and tucked it in the corner of his mouth. “You want to know the most important difference between dogs and cats? Dogs are pack animals, they do what their leader does. Most cats act in their own self-interest, which is why they’ll still be around when this is over—if it ever is. I think you’re part cat, Lila.
“Since the Change struck it’s obvious to me that we’re in an apocalyptic scenario. Mankind’s been teetering on the edge of another global war for years, revving up for it like lemmings getting ready to jump off a cliff. Now they have their excuse to go crazy. If you don’t want to go with them, your best bet is to stick with me.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Why me?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question and I don’t have an answer. Maybe I see something of me in you. Maybe I just don’t want to die alone.”
“Like I almost did in the river,” she said in a whisper.
“Something like that, yeah.”
At his request she helped him transfer some supplies from the house to the tunnels and store them away. “Might as well do it now,” he said, “since I have help. I do have help, don’t I?”
“It looks like it. What you said about global war, Edgar—do you think it’s imminent?”
“I doubt it. We’ve got enough nuclear bombs and intercontinental missiles to blast us all to eternity, but—and the defense department will never admit this—the Change is destroying vital parts needed to operate them. It’s bound to be happening in other countries too.”
“I never thought I’d be glad for the Change.”
“It’s only a temporary reprieve, Lila; that’s why we’re putting this stuff in the tunnels. Sooner or later the munitions manufacturers will come up with satisfactory substitutes. They have too much at stake not to. Then … boom.”
* * *
After lunch they started in on Tilbury’s books. The printing in some was showing the results of the Change, with smeared ink and damp pages, but the older ones were still good.
“What do you like to read, Lila?”
“Almost everything; I told you, I’m self-educated.”
“You’re an autodidact. Some of the world’s most successful people have been autodidacts.”
“Don’t include me in that. The only real success I’ve had was with the computer and that’s not worth much anymore.” Lila thrust her lower lip forward and blew a coppery strand out of her eyes. She was letting her hair grow.
Tilbury said, “You never can tell, it might be valuable again someday.”
“This from a man who’s prophesying the end of the world and equipping a giant fallout shelter?”
“I’m hedging my bets, that’s all.”
Her green eyes filled with shadows. “You’re betting against all of humanity.”
At his direction she began stacking up books she had never read but thought she might like to read. Every now and then he would add one to the pile. “Swiss Family Robinson?” she queried. “This looks old.”
“It is, I know it belonged to my grandfather when he was a boy. It’s about a family who had to start over and build a life out of nothing. On an uninhabited island, as I recall.”
“You definitely want to keep this one close to hand, Edgar. Survival guide.”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty. Wait until you read Five Acres and Independence.”
A few minutes later Lila said, “Surely we’re not going to need all of those,” indicating the thirty-three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica he was pulling from the bookshelves.
“No way of knowing when I might need to refer to them.”
“Can’t you download the information from the … Oops.”
“Yup. Oops. The same with the complete works of Shakespeare. Let’s get these big sets into cartons for safekeeping below.”
They were both aware that “safekeeping below” was a tenuous concept. So far nothing in the tunnels had been affected by the Change, though Tilbury could not explain why.
Over dinner Lila asked him, “How many guests can you accommodate in your hotel down there?”
“Hotel; that’s a good one. Bolt-hole, more like. Covers a lot of territory, but the resources are pretty limited.”
“How many people?”
“You and me.”
“We’re not Adam and Eve.”
“Certainly not, and I’m not a dirty old man. I thought we’d invite somebody nearer your own age.”
Lila put down her cutlery and pushed her plate away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing, I’m just not hungry anymore.”
“Why not? You coming down with something?”
“An advance case of survival guilt, maybe. When you told me about the tunnels and your plans for them it sounded like a fairy tale. Like when I first started amassing money. But now I’m taking a look at reality. This is reality, isn’t it? You propose to rescue a very few people in your own version of the ark while God knows what goes on in the rest of the world?”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
&nbs
p; “I’m putting it exactly like that. And I can’t be part of it, Edgar.”
“If that’s true you’re not the girl I thought you were.”
Lila stood up and pushed her chair away from the table. “I’m not the girl I thought I was either.”
18
According to the local phone books—which had been superseded by computer search engines that had since surrendered to the Change—there were no beekeepers in the Sycamore River Valley and no commercial suppliers of honey. But a label on an almost empty jar at the back of the shelf in his aunt’s kitchen had given Jack a clue: “Privately Labeled for Benning Beekeepers Suppliers.”
When he drove to the neighboring town of Benning he learned the suppliers had been out of business for several years. “Everything comes through commercial distributors now, or it did,” the former proprietor lamented. “As I recall, the last guy I dealt with on a personal basis was an old grump with rural pretensions. We used to get them every now and then, starry-eyed dreamers who wanted to go back to nature and make their own honey, grow their own vegetables. Damned fools who thought they were too good to eat supermarket food like the rest of us.”
Jack could have pointed out that the quality and availability of supermarket food had declined drastically, but he didn’t. “Do you happen to remember where the old grump lived?”
Following the directions he was given, he drove almost back to Sycamore River before turning north onto a gravel road. He saw only a few small farms on a distant hillside. When he came to an unpaved lane identified by a rural mailbox atop a leaning post, he stopped the Mustang and got out. Looked around. Saw nothing of interest.
Whoever lived in this godforsaken spot probably died in his bed and had to be scraped off it.
Jack was unable to abandon a search without a conclusion. He got back into the car, put it in gear and jolted along the rutted laneway. At a bend in the lane he slammed on the brakes.
The woman walking toward him was carrying a large black cat in her arms.
He lowered the window. “Lila Ragland?” he called incredulously.
“Jack Reece,” she responded. “How are you?”
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