10
Outside the Fence
Christie saw Jack look back at the kids as the gate started to roll open and they prepared to leave their fenced-in development.
“Okay. Who can tell me the rules when we’re outside the fence?”
“Jack, I don’t think—”
“The rules are there for a purpose. So, Simon, Kate, what are they?”
“Window up!” Simon said. Christie had to smile. This is such a big adventure for him. She looked at Kate, who rolled her eyes and added, “Doors locked.”
“And stay in the car.”
“Right—as if I’d ever want to go walking around outside here.”
“Good,” Jack added.
Such a cop, Christie thought.
Only then did Jack ease the car outside. And despite everything—the beautiful early-morning sun, the safety of their car, all those rules—Christie had to admit that it felt different.
It always did.
Whenever they were outside things looked different. Grass overgrown, the road pockmarked with potholes. Buildings and stores abandoned. No Can Heads here—at least that’s what the local police had told Jack.
But could they really know, really be sure? As they pulled away, Christie turned around to smile again at the kids.
The big adventure begins!
She looked back to the tall fence with the razor ribbon running along its top as it receded into the distance.
Leaving its protection.
“We’re off,” Jack said.
He almost sounded happy about it.
Christie had to doubt herself. She had pushed this dream of getting away. Was it a good idea? Would it really be giving something to the kids, something that had vanished in this new world?
Did she need it even more than they did?
Once upon a time she had taught high school English in a school not far from Jack’s precinct. But when that sector went red, the school was shuttered. Suddenly there were too many teachers, and not enough students.
Now, like nearly everyone, she homeschooled her kids, and tutored a few neighbor kids in the development. But the neighbors couldn’t pay much, and it never had the excitement, the electric feel of a class of kids engaged in a discussion of Macbeth or Slaughterhouse Five.
Life had contracted.
But she had kept those thoughts to herself.
She reached down and turned on the radio.
* * *
Christie kept looking at the streets, so desolate, and thinking that she wanted to get on the highway fast.
It felt exposed here, out in the open. Even though she spotted a few people walking the streets and a scattering of open stores, it didn’t feel safe.
I’ve become so used to where we live, she thought. To … how we live.
The song ended, replaced with news.
Jack raised the radio volume.
“Police Commissioner Edwards again denied reports that some precincts have begun using poison traps against the Can Heads. ‘My office has found no evidence of any use of these so-called poison traps.’”
Christie turned and looked back at the kids. Kate read a book. Simon played with some plastic soldiers, making them climb up his seat belt like it was a mountainside.
Christie lowered the volume.
“Is that true?”
Jack looked at her.
“You mean about the poison traps? Leaving bodies of … whatever around, laced with poison for the Can Heads?”
“I mean, in your precinct, do you—”
Jack laughed. “And where are we supposed to get these poisoned bodies from?”
“I don’t know. You’re the police. There are morgues.”
Jack hesitated. She didn’t talk to him about his work much. She could feel him tighten whenever she asked questions, as if the very act of asking the question could take him back there.
He took a breath, and she regretted asking the question.
“Okay. I’ve heard of it. You find someone dead. Some homeless guy, some … nobody. And so they put the body out. Laced with enough deadly zinc phosphate to take out an army of Can Heads.”
He took a glance at the back, the kids tuned out. Then to Christie.
“But I never saw it. Never did it. So, far as I’m concerned, it’s a rumor.”
He stopped at a light.
Christie looked away.
Lights. Stopping at a light could be dangerous.
Lots of people just sailed right through them.
Now they waited at this quiet intersection for the red light to give way to green.
All the while, Christie wishing Jack would just go.
She chewed her lip. The street felt so empty, so quiet.
Did the buildings hide dark, hollow eyes looking out at her?
Did Jack feel it, too … or was that just her imagination?
Even Kate looked up from her book.
The light turned green.
“Almost to the Thruway entrance,” Jack said. “Won’t be long.”
Maybe he had felt it. That fear, waiting at the light.
Somehow that made her feel safer.
He turned the radio volume back up.
“—Latest reports show leading government scientists remain divided. The senate’s panel will continue its hearings for at least two more weeks. The president’s press secretary said the administration remains committed to having a new plan to deal with the decade-long Great Drought as well as reversing the so far unexplained blight that has decimated world-wide food production…”
Jack said, “They still have no damn answers.”
Christie gave him a look for the escaped “damn.” Then she leaned forward and hit one of the radio presets.
“Maybe no news for a while?” Christie said.
Jack nodded and smiled. “No news is … probably good news.”
Christie smiled back.
When she looked forward, she saw the entrance to the New York State Thruway.
Armed guards flanked a single gated entrance to the highway.
A turret stood nearby, with more guards able to get a 360-degree bird’s-eye view of the entrance area.
Jack slowed behind the lone car in front of him.
“Can you get out the papers?” he said.
Christie popped open the glove compartment and brought out a packet. To use any highway, you needed a pass from the Emergency Highway Authority. They had to know where you came from, your destination, how long you would be gone, and a host of other seemingly irrelevant details.
The gate to the highway opened and the car in front pulled away. Jack edged next to the booth as the gate came quickly down again.
Jack knew that Christie had paid all the necessary fees weeks ago, so there should be no problem.
Still, he felt a bit of a chill when the guard, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped up to the window.
Odd position for a cop to be in. This slight air of suspicion.
“Hi, folks. How are you doing today?”
Making small talk. A technique. Sometimes Can Heads could look normal, almost act normal. But if you talked to them, if you chatted to a Can Head, you’d know damn fast.
Shit, you could even sense it—or even smell it on them, on their clothes, on their breath. You’d see a stray red dollop marking their shirt.
“Going on a vacation, eh?” The guard flipped through the papers.
“Yes,” Christie said, smiling. The guard had lowered his head to get a good look inside. “Our first with the kids. We’re going to the Paterville Family Camp. In the mountains.”
The guard nodded, now looking right at Jack. “I hear it’s nice up there.”
Jack had trouble engaging in the chitchat, this little routine the highway cop had.
Could flash my badge, Jack thought.
Cut this short.
“Have there been any reports?” Jack said. “Any trouble, on the way up?”
The guard laug
hed as if it was a silly question.
“No. Nothing for weeks. Been real quiet. I think we got them on the run. In this state, at least. And you got a good steel-mesh fence, electrified all the way up there. I wouldn’t worry.”
The guard scanned the back of the Explorer, checking out the children.
“You have a nice vacation,” the guard said, backing away.
He went back to his booth and opened the gate. The two guards to the side, rifles at a 45-degree angle, watched the operation carefully. The gate moved up slowly. Then Jack gave the guard a nod, and pulled onto the entrance ramp.
They were on the Thruway.
Heading north, to the mountains. Their vacation had, Jack felt, really begun.
11
In the Backseat
Simon looked out the window. His parents sat so quietly. Usually they talked.
But now—just sitting so quiet.
He turned to look over to his sister. She had her nose in her book. That’s what Mom always said, You always have your nose in a book.
Simon didn’t like to read. Mom tried, and the more she tried the more he hated it.
Kate loved it.
He looked out the window. No one else on the highway. So empty, Simon thought. And the fence … he knew that a fence surrounded where they lived. He’d seen that lots.
But this tall fence with its curled wire at the top seemed much taller.
And every now and then … a sign.
Big red letters.
Simon read the words.
WARNING! THIS PROTECTIVE FENCE IS ELECTRIFIED.
The fence was electric. Why was that? Were the bad people on the other side? Is that why it had to be electrified?
He wanted to ask his parents.
But instead he just kept looking out the window.
As the car sped down the empty highway, as one sign after the other rushed by, Simon finally picked up his plastic men.
There was danger ahead for his action figures. They’d have to climb, then fight something big and evil.
But Simon didn’t know exactly what yet.
* * *
“I’m hungry!”
“Can’t you … shut up?”
Christie reached over and touched Kate’s knee. “Kate, no ‘shut ups,’ please.”
Christie watched Simon turn and make a face at his sister.
Gonna be a long ride, Christie thought.
“And Simon—no faces.”
“Mom, can you please make him stop? I want to read my book and not have him whining about food!”
Christie saw Jack raise his head to the rearview mirror. “You guys chill. Want to watch a video?”
Christie knew that was no solution. The two kids never agreed on a video. Sometimes it seemed as if Kate liked being defiant. She still enjoyed the big animated movies from years ago as much as Simon.
Contrary, thought Christie. She just likes being … contrary. Must be an age thing, a brother-and-sister thing.
Some kind of thing.
At least I get to experience what families have always experienced on vacation road trips.
One of the reasons people always looked forward to coming home.
“Okay, you two. How about food? We have some PB&J in the cooler. And those lemon drinks you like.”
“Yuck. I don’t like that stuff,” Simon said.
As if forced to agree, Kate added: “Me neither. Nothing else?”
“Some of that fruity yogurt too … different flavors…”
Christie knew that wasn’t a crowd-pleaser either. The yogurt had been invented using soy solids. And the supposed fruit? Clumps of color and artificial sweetener.
At least the PB&J used some peanut butter. So they said.
“Go on … it’s a long trip. Eat a sandwich. And just think of the great food we’ll have at the camp. Real food, hm?”
She saw the two of them look out the window, almost at the same moment.
As if looking out at this road, they didn’t really believe her. Real food? Something they had at home—what, once a week? Maybe less? The rest of the time it was all the manufactured stuff. Nutritious enough, so they said.
But how long could people eat that and not begin to miss real food, real taste in a way that almost ached?
“Kate, could you dig out a few sandwiches? A couple of drinks?”
Kate slowly turned away from the window and the highway outside.
She nodded, and then reached into a cooler sitting between her and Simon.
Sandwiches appeared. Then drinks in curved plastic bottles, lots of color.
“Want something, Mom? Dad?”
“No thanks,” Jack said too quickly.
Christie shot him a look as if to say this might have been a time for some food solidarity.
We’re in this together.
“Sure, honey. I’ll have one.”
Though Christie wasn’t hungry.
It didn’t taste very good.
She took the sandwich and smiled at Kate. Simon had already unwrapped his sandwich, half of it gone.
Couldn’t be too bad.
Christie gave her daughter a pat on the knee.
As if to say, I depend on you. And thanks.
She turned back to the front and waited just a few seconds before unwrapping her own uninviting sandwich.
Which is when she saw something black, sitting squarely in the center of the far-right lane, just ahead.
12
Rest Stop
Christie turned to him.
“What is it?”
It took only seconds for Jack to recognize the debris on the road: a large, curled piece of black tire tread. He slid over into the left lane.
He looked at the chewed-up tire as he drove by.
“Someone blew a tire.”
Nobody said anything for a minute.
Then:
“Someone blew a tire?” Christie said. “You make it sound like it’s an everyday occurrence.”
Jack looked into the backseat to make sure the kids were otherwise engaged.
Which they were.
“Tires blow. Happens.”
“Used to happen. I did the paperwork for this trip. You’re not even allowed on this highway unless you have those new reinforced treads. Want to tell me how you blow one of those?”
Jack looked down at the gas gauge, hoping for a distraction, and said, “Going to need a stop soon. Gas is getting low. There’s a rest stop in about ten more miles.”
Christie leaned close and at the same time lowered her voice.
“You didn’t answer me.”
He looked at her.
“Okay. There are reinforced tires, and some … not so reinforced. We see them in Red Hook. Trucks that have bought them as retreads. They’re listed with all the stats that supposedly make them safe. But now and then … something happens.”
“On its own or with a little help?”
Another look.
“Both.”
Another silence.
“So, which do you think this was?”
Jack laughed. “What do I look like—a cop?”
That made Christie laugh.
“Just relax, Christie. Some trucker with inferior tires. He throws on a spare and he’s out of here. Leaving that back chunk for us to dodge.”
A sign flew by.
NEXT REST STOP 7 MILES.
Then the symbol for gas, and a knife and fork for food.
“Going to stop up here. Fill up before we hit the Northway.”
Jack wondered if she was still thinking about the tire. Everything had gone so smoothly, almost as if they were some family from the twentieth century enjoying a simple summer trip up north.
It’s true enough, Jack thought. There were cheap “certified” reinforced tires, with the “approved” additional steel and nylon belts.
Normally, even the reinforced tires didn’t just blow.
And a trucker doing a long haul on this road … why,
that would be the last thing he’d want.
Jack took a breath.
He could worry. Or he could let it go. Things happen. And if he didn’t get out of his paranoid state of mind—
—if it could even be called paranoia—
—it wouldn’t be much of a vacation.
The kids didn’t deserve that.
Another sign.
REST STOP AHEAD.
* * *
Jack pulled up to a row of gas pumps. He stopped the car but left the engine running.
“Aren’t you going to get some gas?” Christie asked.
“Can we get some stuff?” Simon said, eyeing the garish sign that announced a QuikMart inside.
“Hold on,” Jack said.
Jack looked at his hands locked on the steering wheel. What am I doing? he wondered. Looking around for what?
No other cars here getting gas. That wasn’t so strange; after all, the highway had been pretty deserted.
And in the parking areas …
A sixteen-wheeler way in the back, maybe the driver catching some Z’s. Two cars parked on the side, the patrons probably inside the QuikMart. Maybe hitting the restrooms.
“Jack? What is it?”
He killed the ignition.
He smiled. “Nothing.” He pulled the key out and turned toward Christie and the kids. “Look, I’m going to lock the doors when I get out, okay?”
“Jack, do you really—”
Simon turned again to the QuikMart. “You mean, we can’t go in there, Dad? Why not? Looks like—”
Kate leaned close to her brother. “’Cause there are Can Heads inside and they’ll eat you right up!”
“Kate—” Christie said.
Jack popped open his door. “Locked. Windows up tight. Got it?”
Christie nodded.
* * *
Steady, Jack told himself.
What the hell kind of vacation would this be if he drove his family crazy? He held the nozzle tight in the tank opening as it guzzled the ever-more-expensive fuel. Amazing, that with fewer people going anywhere, still the OPEC nations could tighten supply and make the once prosperous nations of the West pay and pay.
Just as they would squeeze every last drop of oil out of the deserts, so they would squeeze every devalued dollar and pound and yen from the countries that still desperately depended on their oil.
Vacation Page 5
