"c142" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

4:50 P.M. Wednesday, January 26, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate stamped his feet against the cold. It was getting dark, and threatening to snow again. The line of people in which he waited Y2K-shuffled forward a half step. It was his turn in the rotation to wait in line; everybody did line duty once a week, according to the schedule he'd created. To conserve gasoline, people went out crammed ten to a car—Georgina's brother's Suburban, to be precise, since it had the best gas-mileage-to-packed-body ratio. Once in town they waited in as many lines as they could between 6am and 6pm. Here in Limon seemed to be some of the best lines. At two thousand people, the town was large enough to get government shipments of necessities, and right on I-70 so some commercial trucks unloaded here in exchange for gas, food, or whatever the last truck left, or just out of fear of being brutalized in Denver or Topeka; but the town was small enough that the cornucopia didn't have to be shared among two million people like in Denver. The problem with the government lines was you never knew what you were in line for. They'd open a random crate and hand out one unit of whatever it was to each person, exchange your ration card for tomorrow's, thank you, next. "Hey, they're onto green beans!" the most recent head of the line shouted as she walked past, hoisting her small tin bounty. But she held up her hand to forestall any bidding on it. The line advanced half a step. The non-government lines were worse, in a way. Milk, bread, cigarettes, and other highly-prized trophies went to whoever queued up earliest. You could show up at three a.m. and wait four hours in the cold; or you could risk arriving at seven when a store opened and hope that there was still a packet of beef jerky left by the time you shuffled forward a hundred times. Nate still had a substantial stash of food, but felt it best if everyone kept it updated. Besides, everyone liked fresh items. Fresh milk was the most prized among Nate's fortress. The powdered stuff from Nate's kit tasted like wet paper. "Canned pears! Anyone wanna trade for some pears?" said a guy exiting the line. "Packa cigarettes for 'em!" shouted one line-waiter, or "Liner." "Two!" "Six-pack of Coors light!" "Fifty-bucks!" There was probably more cash and barter wealth accumulated in each line than in the crates everyone waited for. It was understood that most everyone was also packing a gun. Concealed weapons were illegal in Colorado, of course, but it hardly mattered with police spread so thin, and still having no prioritized plan for where they would concentrate their efforts. After the first few people were shot trying to rob Liners, folks caught on real fast. Nate saw the pears quickly traded for what looked like a quarter flask of Jim Beam among a knot of loiterers. Nate finally scraped along to the back door of the town hall. In exchange for his ration card, the haggard old fellow with a 1950's civil defense helmet handed Nate a ration card stamped with tomorrow's date and a tin can reading "USDA / Vegetable / Catsup." "Catsup? You're kidding. Catsup's not a vegetable! Tomatoes are a fruit for one—" "If you don't want it..." Nate grumbled and walked away. He held his tin up. "Catsup! Catsup for trade! Anyone? Catsup? Anyone?" He had no takers and quietly hobbled to his next line at the Wal-Mart. They were selling off what was left of the store out the front door. You waited in line; if you didn't like the single item they were offering to the first in line, or didn't think you could trade for it with someone else, you said no—politely, since they kept their guns trained on you the whole time—and you went to the back of the line again. Russ waited with him. "So, you given any more thought to the draft?" Russ said. "Ain't goin." Russ frowned. "Look," Nate cut him off before he could continue, "I've got a houseful of people to take care of. I can't go traipsing off to fix IRS computers so they can get taxes processed in April, or whatever stupid project they'd put me on." And he had to find Amber. He didn't mention that. "Mary Beth and I can handle the house. I've offered you a hundred times. Please, Nate. The world needs to pull itself up by its bootstraps, and it needs programmers to fix this mess." He looked at him in what Nate knew was his "besides you idiot programmers got us into this in the first place" look. Nate turned away, arms crossed. He'd rather have silence than run through this again. Russ persisted the next day. Nate avoided him, but couldn't escape his lobbying at meals. The house was too small to avoid his brother. He pressed him the next day. Politely—Russ, if anything, was polite—but insistently. "It's close—you'd only be in the Springs..." Nate silently thought of the Good Samaritan debt he'd accumulated from Dr. Dhawale and Tibby and the handful of others who'd helped him out. He counterbalanced that with his resolve that he was helping out. A houseful of helping. And Amber needed him... It wasn't fair. He'd warned everyone he could to fix their damn Y2K bug. He'd warned them to prepare. He'd prepared. Now the government was going to uproot him because he'd been right, but they hadn't listened? Damn them. On Sunday, when Nate's sister-in-law, Mary Beth, led the Sunday "service," Nate joined in. Like most programmers, he didn't believe in all the "religious crap," but for once he could see the benefit of offloading his worries onto some higher authority. He prayed for Amber's safekeeping. And, should he be prevented from searching for her, he prayed for the strength not to go crazy without her. He prayed for guidance. That evening he packed the single totebag the draft notice allowed him.

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Chapter 14.2

4:50 P.M. Wednesday, January 26, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate stamped his feet against the cold. It was getting dark, and threatening to snow again. The line of people in which he waited Y2K-shuffled forward a half step. It was his turn in the rotation to wait in line; everybody did line duty once a week, according to the schedule he'd created. To conserve gasoline, people went out crammed ten to a car—Georgina's brother's Suburban, to be precise, since it had the best gas-mileage-to-packed-body ratio. Once in town they waited in as many lines as they could between 6am and 6pm. Here in Limon seemed to be some of the best lines. At two thousand people, the town was large enough to get government shipments of necessities, and right on I-70 so some commercial trucks unloaded here in exchange for gas, food, or whatever the last truck left, or just out of fear of being brutalized in Denver or Topeka; but the town was small enough that the cornucopia didn't have to be shared among two million people like in Denver. The problem with the government lines was you never knew what you were in line for. They'd open a random crate and hand out one unit of whatever it was to each person, exchange your ration card for tomorrow's, thank you, next. "Hey, they're onto green beans!" the most recent head of the line shouted as she walked past, hoisting her small tin bounty. But she held up her hand to forestall any bidding on it. The line advanced half a step. The non-government lines were worse, in a way. Milk, bread, cigarettes, and other highly-prized trophies went to whoever queued up earliest. You could show up at three a.m. and wait four hours in the cold; or you could risk arriving at seven when a store opened and hope that there was still a packet of beef jerky left by the time you shuffled forward a hundred times. Nate still had a substantial stash of food, but felt it best if everyone kept it updated. Besides, everyone liked fresh items. Fresh milk was the most prized among Nate's fortress. The powdered stuff from Nate's kit tasted like wet paper. "Canned pears! Anyone wanna trade for some pears?" said a guy exiting the line. "Packa cigarettes for 'em!" shouted one line-waiter, or "Liner." "Two!" "Six-pack of Coors light!" "Fifty-bucks!" There was probably more cash and barter wealth accumulated in each line than in the crates everyone waited for. It was understood that most everyone was also packing a gun. Concealed weapons were illegal in Colorado, of course, but it hardly mattered with police spread so thin, and still having no prioritized plan for where they would concentrate their efforts. After the first few people were shot trying to rob Liners, folks caught on real fast. Nate saw the pears quickly traded for what looked like a quarter flask of Jim Beam among a knot of loiterers. Nate finally scraped along to the back door of the town hall. In exchange for his ration card, the haggard old fellow with a 1950's civil defense helmet handed Nate a ration card stamped with tomorrow's date and a tin can reading "USDA / Vegetable / Catsup." "Catsup? You're kidding. Catsup's not a vegetable! Tomatoes are a fruit for one—" "If you don't want it..." Nate grumbled and walked away. He held his tin up. "Catsup! Catsup for trade! Anyone? Catsup? Anyone?" He had no takers and quietly hobbled to his next line at the Wal-Mart. They were selling off what was left of the store out the front door. You waited in line; if you didn't like the single item they were offering to the first in line, or didn't think you could trade for it with someone else, you said no—politely, since they kept their guns trained on you the whole time—and you went to the back of the line again. Russ waited with him. "So, you given any more thought to the draft?" Russ said. "Ain't goin." Russ frowned. "Look," Nate cut him off before he could continue, "I've got a houseful of people to take care of. I can't go traipsing off to fix IRS computers so they can get taxes processed in April, or whatever stupid project they'd put me on." And he had to find Amber. He didn't mention that. "Mary Beth and I can handle the house. I've offered you a hundred times. Please, Nate. The world needs to pull itself up by its bootstraps, and it needs programmers to fix this mess." He looked at him in what Nate knew was his "besides you idiot programmers got us into this in the first place" look. Nate turned away, arms crossed. He'd rather have silence than run through this again. Russ persisted the next day. Nate avoided him, but couldn't escape his lobbying at meals. The house was too small to avoid his brother. He pressed him the next day. Politely—Russ, if anything, was polite—but insistently. "It's close—you'd only be in the Springs..." Nate silently thought of the Good Samaritan debt he'd accumulated from Dr. Dhawale and Tibby and the handful of others who'd helped him out. He counterbalanced that with his resolve that he was helping out. A houseful of helping. And Amber needed him... It wasn't fair. He'd warned everyone he could to fix their damn Y2K bug. He'd warned them to prepare. He'd prepared. Now the government was going to uproot him because he'd been right, but they hadn't listened? Damn them. On Sunday, when Nate's sister-in-law, Mary Beth, led the Sunday "service," Nate joined in. Like most programmers, he didn't believe in all the "religious crap," but for once he could see the benefit of offloading his worries onto some higher authority. He prayed for Amber's safekeeping. And, should he be prevented from searching for her, he prayed for the strength not to go crazy without her. He prayed for guidance. That evening he packed the single totebag the draft notice allowed him.


back | next home