"c112" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

12:36 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate knew he wasn't in his car. He was in a dark, windowless place, but clearly inside. He felt a wall beside him; a hard floor on the other side. He was hot and wet with perspiration; what had he been doing? Had he run here? Where was here? He checked his watch; its dim light showed it half past midnight. But what day? He tried to sit up, but the numbness where his body should be didn't respond, his arms shuddered weakly and collapsed under him. He lay in the dark for eternal, sleepless minutes, days, hazy figures seeming to drift before him. He woke with a start at a noise. "Well, look who's awake." The voice sounded pleasantly feminine to Nate's ears, but who was she talking to. Was he awake? Aha, yes, he must be. A beige room swam into focus with medical certificates on the wall high above him and a Santa Fe Music Festival poster. Cabinets and a counter. Antiseptic smell mixed with kerosene—from the kerosene lantern providing the flickering light. A shadowy examining table loomed above him, but he was not on it. Aha, he was on the floor. A doctor's office. The nurse must have seen him looking at the floor beside him. "Oh, sorry we only had a mattress on the floor for you." Nate must have looked alarmed. "Don't worry, we didn't drag it out of an alley. The mattress is Dr. Dhawale's son's." She pulled a thermometer from his mouth that he hadn't known was there. "Don't try to get up. You had quite the close one. Nasty bump on your head." "How—" Nate choked on a dry mouth. He wanted to ask how did he get here. Where was here, and so forth. "How many days were you in a coma? Let's see, today is Thursday, the 13th, so almost a week." Nate gurgled. "Oh hey, let me get you some water." She reappeared after a moment with a paper cup of water, which she helped him drink. She smelled nice. "Ah! And how is our patient this day? Drinking water and getting fresh with nurse Petronelli. Excellent!" The dark, Indian-looking man whom Nate assumed to be Dr. Dhawale checked his bandaged leg. "Do you have strength enough to stand?" With the doctor's and nurse's help, Nate rose and hopped on one leg. He wincingly put pressure on the other. It hurt like hell, he felt weak as a noodle from lack of food, but he could stand. "Excellent! My son will be pleased at the impending return of his bed," he said jovially. "I would like to check the wound in another few days, but I believe with the help of these," he said, producing a pair of crutches, "you can return to your home in full fitness." "I can? I mean, that's great. But how..." He wanted to ask, how do I get there, since he was pretty sure he'd totalled Georgina's Escort. No, that was asking too much hospitality. The rules had changed. He should be grateful the man even took him in. He finished instead with, "...much do I owe you?" Dhawale waved his hands. "Pah, what is money worth today? I'm a doctor, this is my job. Just as the truck driver who brought you here helped you, please return instead the favor to someone else who needs your help." Nate thought of helping Amber, but dismissed the thought as selfish. Likewise all the freeloaders who'd descended on his house. He would, he swore, repay the favor to someone else, sometime. They exchanged hugs (Nate particularly lingering while hugging nurse Petronelli), and Nate hopped outside, apologizing for inconveniencing them for so long and assuring Dr. Dhawale that he could get home. Now that he was outside, he had to figure out how to do that. Limon. He was in Limon. Twenty miles east of home. On a good leg he could walk that, but not on crutches or in this windy cold. He had no money, and nothing to barter. He scanned the dark store fronts for some clue. A pay phone—but no phone service. Hitchhiking appeared his only option. He crutched his way to the highway and stuck out his thumb. Cars and trucks whizzed by. Minutes passed. Half an hour. An hour. Finally a battered old green station wagon pulled over, drowning him in dust. Nate hobbled over. "Whatcha got to trade fer a ride?" the old codger inside asked. "A pint mebbe?" He winked. Nate shrugged. "Mister, I haven't got a dime to my name on me." Which, he thought, probably kept him from getting robbed. He was about to elaborate that he had barterables at home— "Too bad," the old man said and tore off. Nate shook his crutch at him. "Goddamnit!" He wouldn't make that mistake again. Forty-five minutes later when a semi pulled over, he began the conversation with, "What'dya want to drive me twenty miles?" The burly, curly-hair-covered truck driver laughed. "Restoration of electric power, telephones, and the Playboy channel; a thick, juicy steak and a tall, cold Coors. But I'll settle for a six-pack of Coke." He stared at Nate. "Naww, I'd settle for six miles of company. Better'n listening to the nutcases clobbering up the CB. Name's Tibby. Hop in." It turned out that Tibby—a drunken amalgamation of Tipsy and Tubby that had stuck—had been shot at, Molotov cocktailed, crashed into, multiply near-carjacked, and tear gassed as he'd driven his empty eighteen-wheeler from Indianapolis. "All 'cause I promised I'd get this damn rig back to my boss in Sacramento in one piece. Probably won't get no bonus, but Tibby never welches on a deal. I tried a big sign saying 'trailer is empty', but that only egged them on. 'Dangerous! Biohazardous waste!' didn't work much better. Had to give up; just let the back doors swing open. Come to think of it, I mighta misspelled biohazardous. Now I mainly just drive straight through the blockades. I shoulda taken '80, but heard there was some guys outsida Omaha shootin bazookas at rigs that didn't stop, and besides, '80's a lot colder than '70..." and so on he rambled for twenty minutes until they reached Nate's turnoff. Nate debated whether to invite him down to the house, but decided against it. Not that he thought Tibby would move in and be another mouth to feed. Rather the opposite. He'd move his mouth all over the country, and probably Nate's location with it. "Why don't you pull over here," Nate said as they reached a road that didn't quite lead to his farmhouse, but to an abandoned neighbors', visible from the highway. "I'd have you pull up to the house," he added, "but the family's a bit skittish about strangers, if you know what I mean." He held a virtual bazooka up to his shoulder and made an explosion sound. "Say no more, say no more!" Nate felt bad distrusting him. "But if you hang around here for a few, I'll come back with a six pack of Coors..." "Fine, fine." Tibby looked hurt. Nate pressed his lips together, wishing he could be friendlier. But this was survival. He managed to climb out with the crutches, and began walking down the dirt road. Tibby pulled away with a grinding of gears, and zipped off down the highway. Nate berated himself the rest of the crutch-walk home. He tried absolving himself by promising to return the favor elsewhere, but that just made him feel buried under a mounting debt he wasn't sure he could ever repay. These thoughts fled like thieves when he arrived home. The cars out front, which he'd had everyone park neatly, were jammed in at all crazy angles. The front door was open, and the cacophony of multiple arguments cascaded out from it. Trash was strewn everywhere inside. His neatly arranged storage boxes and cabinets were every which way, torn up, overturned. People likewise. Those not arguing or scavenging were lounging dazed like druggies or sleeping on the floor in fetal positions. Everywhere were bottles, beer cans, food tins, dirty plates, wrinkled clothes. All the lights were on, wasting precious power. The TV blared static.

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Chapter 11.2

12:36 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate knew he wasn't in his car. He was in a dark, windowless place, but clearly inside. He felt a wall beside him; a hard floor on the other side. He was hot and wet with perspiration; what had he been doing? Had he run here? Where was here? He checked his watch; its dim light showed it half past midnight. But what day? He tried to sit up, but the numbness where his body should be didn't respond, his arms shuddered weakly and collapsed under him. He lay in the dark for eternal, sleepless minutes, days, hazy figures seeming to drift before him. He woke with a start at a noise. "Well, look who's awake." The voice sounded pleasantly feminine to Nate's ears, but who was she talking to. Was he awake? Aha, yes, he must be. A beige room swam into focus with medical certificates on the wall high above him and a Santa Fe Music Festival poster. Cabinets and a counter. Antiseptic smell mixed with kerosene—from the kerosene lantern providing the flickering light. A shadowy examining table loomed above him, but he was not on it. Aha, he was on the floor. A doctor's office. The nurse must have seen him looking at the floor beside him. "Oh, sorry we only had a mattress on the floor for you." Nate must have looked alarmed. "Don't worry, we didn't drag it out of an alley. The mattress is Dr. Dhawale's son's." She pulled a thermometer from his mouth that he hadn't known was there. "Don't try to get up. You had quite the close one. Nasty bump on your head." "How—" Nate choked on a dry mouth. He wanted to ask how did he get here. Where was here, and so forth. "How many days were you in a coma? Let's see, today is Thursday, the 13th, so almost a week." Nate gurgled. "Oh hey, let me get you some water." She reappeared after a moment with a paper cup of water, which she helped him drink. She smelled nice. "Ah! And how is our patient this day? Drinking water and getting fresh with nurse Petronelli. Excellent!" The dark, Indian-looking man whom Nate assumed to be Dr. Dhawale checked his bandaged leg. "Do you have strength enough to stand?" With the doctor's and nurse's help, Nate rose and hopped on one leg. He wincingly put pressure on the other. It hurt like hell, he felt weak as a noodle from lack of food, but he could stand. "Excellent! My son will be pleased at the impending return of his bed," he said jovially. "I would like to check the wound in another few days, but I believe with the help of these," he said, producing a pair of crutches, "you can return to your home in full fitness." "I can? I mean, that's great. But how..." He wanted to ask, how do I get there, since he was pretty sure he'd totalled Georgina's Escort. No, that was asking too much hospitality. The rules had changed. He should be grateful the man even took him in. He finished instead with, "...much do I owe you?" Dhawale waved his hands. "Pah, what is money worth today? I'm a doctor, this is my job. Just as the truck driver who brought you here helped you, please return instead the favor to someone else who needs your help." Nate thought of helping Amber, but dismissed the thought as selfish. Likewise all the freeloaders who'd descended on his house. He would, he swore, repay the favor to someone else, sometime. They exchanged hugs (Nate particularly lingering while hugging nurse Petronelli), and Nate hopped outside, apologizing for inconveniencing them for so long and assuring Dr. Dhawale that he could get home. Now that he was outside, he had to figure out how to do that. Limon. He was in Limon. Twenty miles east of home. On a good leg he could walk that, but not on crutches or in this windy cold. He had no money, and nothing to barter. He scanned the dark store fronts for some clue. A pay phone—but no phone service. Hitchhiking appeared his only option. He crutched his way to the highway and stuck out his thumb. Cars and trucks whizzed by. Minutes passed. Half an hour. An hour. Finally a battered old green station wagon pulled over, drowning him in dust. Nate hobbled over. "Whatcha got to trade fer a ride?" the old codger inside asked. "A pint mebbe?" He winked. Nate shrugged. "Mister, I haven't got a dime to my name on me." Which, he thought, probably kept him from getting robbed. He was about to elaborate that he had barterables at home— "Too bad," the old man said and tore off. Nate shook his crutch at him. "Goddamnit!" He wouldn't make that mistake again. Forty-five minutes later when a semi pulled over, he began the conversation with, "What'dya want to drive me twenty miles?" The burly, curly-hair-covered truck driver laughed. "Restoration of electric power, telephones, and the Playboy channel; a thick, juicy steak and a tall, cold Coors. But I'll settle for a six-pack of Coke." He stared at Nate. "Naww, I'd settle for six miles of company. Better'n listening to the nutcases clobbering up the CB. Name's Tibby. Hop in." It turned out that Tibby—a drunken amalgamation of Tipsy and Tubby that had stuck—had been shot at, Molotov cocktailed, crashed into, multiply near-carjacked, and tear gassed as he'd driven his empty eighteen-wheeler from Indianapolis. "All 'cause I promised I'd get this damn rig back to my boss in Sacramento in one piece. Probably won't get no bonus, but Tibby never welches on a deal. I tried a big sign saying 'trailer is empty', but that only egged them on. 'Dangerous! Biohazardous waste!' didn't work much better. Had to give up; just let the back doors swing open. Come to think of it, I mighta misspelled biohazardous. Now I mainly just drive straight through the blockades. I shoulda taken '80, but heard there was some guys outsida Omaha shootin bazookas at rigs that didn't stop, and besides, '80's a lot colder than '70..." and so on he rambled for twenty minutes until they reached Nate's turnoff. Nate debated whether to invite him down to the house, but decided against it. Not that he thought Tibby would move in and be another mouth to feed. Rather the opposite. He'd move his mouth all over the country, and probably Nate's location with it. "Why don't you pull over here," Nate said as they reached a road that didn't quite lead to his farmhouse, but to an abandoned neighbors', visible from the highway. "I'd have you pull up to the house," he added, "but the family's a bit skittish about strangers, if you know what I mean." He held a virtual bazooka up to his shoulder and made an explosion sound. "Say no more, say no more!" Nate felt bad distrusting him. "But if you hang around here for a few, I'll come back with a six pack of Coors..." "Fine, fine." Tibby looked hurt. Nate pressed his lips together, wishing he could be friendlier. But this was survival. He managed to climb out with the crutches, and began walking down the dirt road. Tibby pulled away with a grinding of gears, and zipped off down the highway. Nate berated himself the rest of the crutch-walk home. He tried absolving himself by promising to return the favor elsewhere, but that just made him feel buried under a mounting debt he wasn't sure he could ever repay. These thoughts fled like thieves when he arrived home. The cars out front, which he'd had everyone park neatly, were jammed in at all crazy angles. The front door was open, and the cacophony of multiple arguments cascaded out from it. Trash was strewn everywhere inside. His neatly arranged storage boxes and cabinets were every which way, torn up, overturned. People likewise. Those not arguing or scavenging were lounging dazed like druggies or sleeping on the floor in fetal positions. Everywhere were bottles, beer cans, food tins, dirty plates, wrinkled clothes. All the lights were on, wasting precious power. The TV blared static.


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