Footfall

Harry felt the urgency (what was happening now around Carlotta Dawson? And where, in hell or heaven, was Congressman Wes?) and the certain knowledge that hurrying was a mistake. His vertebrae, dreaming that they had become solid bone, woke to grating agony as he lifted and twisted and crouched and crawled. He worked muscles that had forgotten their function. They protested and were ignored. He worked as he had to, letting details fill his mind from edge to edge. It was like the calm from being ripped on marijuana, or (he presumed) from transcendental meditation. He had read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance long ago.

It was killing labor, and Harry was drenched with sweat. He was old, old. But the Kawasaki was a motorcycle again.

This would be a hellish shakedown tour for a newly mounted engine. Harry smoked while the crankcase drained onto the weeds. He refilled it with a very light oil. He started the engine and let it run for the life span of a cigarette. He drained the engine again and refilled it with a heavier oil.

Puffing, he began to pack the Kawasaki . The sleeping bag went on the rack. It would normally carry his guitar, but not this trip! He’d already turned that over to Lucy Mott for safekeeping. He ran his spare cables alongside the working cables, ready to be attached in an instant. He reached into the fuel tank’s wide-mouthed fill — was there anyone to see? — to attach the gold peso and the dimes. Carlotta Dawson’s .45 auto went under the seat, with two clips. The .25 Beretta was in his jacket pocket. A one-quart botta bag was more convenient than a canteen for drinking while riding; he’d want to fill it before he left.

What had he forgotten? He had spare belts, high-speed belts built for industry, which fit the cycle and cost a quarter as much as store-bought. He checked everything: spare oil, ratchet set, screwdriver set, four wrenches, electrical tape, spare fuses, a can of hydraulic oil for the brakes. Tubing cut to fit. Spare clothing in a plastic garbage bag. The binoculars.

Finally he buckled on the wide kidney belt. It reduced his stomach by inches, and made him feel ten years younger.

He went to the head shop next door for cigarettes. There was only one clerk, and Harry was surprised to see her.

“Ruby?”

“Yeah, man. How’s it, Harry?”

“I thought you’d be in the mountains by now,” Harry said.

She looked puzzled.

“Aliens? Space war? Lights in the sky?”

She laughed. “What you need, Harry?”

“Two cartons of Pall Mall . No filter. Ruby, you told me about it.”

She got out the cigarettes. Harry handed her money, and she gave him back change. No premium price. “Told you about what?”

“What I said. Space War.”

She laughed again. “I thought I remembered calling somebody; was that you?” She laughed some more. “Wow, that Colombian stuff is strong, Harry. I really thought it was real!”

He was still shaking his head when he got outside. It was tough loading the Kawasaki into the truck, but he got help from the guys in the shop.

Got to return the truck, he told himself. Got to.

Fifteen hundred miles, near enough. Wish I didn’t have to take the truck back. Ought to get started … Hell, it’s only five miles to Arline’s place. Damn near on the way. Let’s get it done.

If he’d been in a car, he’d never have made it.

All the highways out of Los Angeles were jammed. Cars all over the road. Cars stalled on the wrong side of the road, people driving on the left side, anything to get out. And then the first wrecks, and the endless fields of cars behind them.

Many were piled high with clutter. Baby cribs. Footlockers. A typewriter. Blankets, toys, any damned thing you could think of, lashed on top of the cars. One king-size mattress on top of a car full of kids.

There weren’t many police, and where there were any, they were turning people back. Harry had to take out Dawson’s letter a dozen times, until he was good with the spiel.

“I’m Congressman Wes Dawson’s assistant,” Harry would say. “He’s aboard the alien ship. I have to look after his wife.”

One of the national guardsmen even said “sir” to Harry after he’d seen the letter.

“Heard much, Sergeant?”

“No, sir. They hit Hoover Dam. We know that much. Seem to have hit a lot of dams and power plants and railroad yards. Nobody knows why. Now they’ve gone.”

Harry nodded sagely. “Thanks.” Then he couldn’t resist. “Carry on, Sergeant,” he said, and roared off.

By mid-afternoon he was through the Cajon Pass , headed east across the Mojave Desert . His back had begun to hurt.

14. THE DAM

Better one’s own duty, though imperfect,
Than another’s duty well performed.

—The Bhagavad Gita

COUNTDOWN: H PLUS 36 HOURS

Jeri Wilson woke with a start. The sun was in the west, sinking toward one of the snowcapped peaks that surrounded the twisting mountain road. Melissa sat quietly in the backseat.