of all that, sir.”
“Yeah, well.” The Guard checked over Corliss’s license, the vehicle permits, their IDs. At last he waved them on. “Good luck,” he called, but as if he doubted they would find any luck at all.
Corliss let out a gust of breath that kept time with the car’s acceleration. “Nice, John. Nice. You’ve earned your passage, so to speak. The state line.” Another exhalation. “Jesus, I hope Meggie’s okay.” Then, smiling curiously, “You didn’t seem fazed by that Purchase-to-the-Hudson business.”
“I don’t know where Purchase is. Is it bad?”
Corliss laughed. “Damn, yes. Basically everything from the Connecticut–New York border across to Tarrytown and the Hudson, down into Sovereign New York. I’m glad you said what you said to him—I couldn’t think that fast. Where in the city is it you mean to get?”
“Manhattan. As far in as you’ll take me, and walk the rest of the way unless I can find another ride.”
Corliss shrugged. “If we can get across the border I’ll bring you down to Tuckahoe with me, but then—I left Margaret with an old .32. I think she’d use it, but I hope she doesn’t have to. Purchase to the river. Jesus H. Christ.”
But Tietjen was sinking into his own panic, hearing the bravado of his plans, wondering how he was going to get to the city and what he would find there. Not who, he realized. What. He felt a dim anger at himself; what about the boys, what about Irene? What the hell was wrong with him?
But everyone seemed to think them as good as dead. There would be time to mourn later. Now he had to know.
The keening voice under all thought insisted: Home.
For a while the two men rode in silence.
“We’re getting close to Greenwich,” Corliss said at last. “Looks like we’ll have to run the line on one of the small roads. Hell, they can’t have this whole area covered.”
“You know it well?”
“Grew up around here. Hope I remember what I think I do.” Corliss smiled a mirthless smile, ridges of white stubble bracketing his mouth. “We’ll get off the parkway here and maybe I can find one of them.”
“Is that what this was? A parkway? Doesn’t look like much.”
“The Merritt Parkway. Turns into the Hutchinson once we get into New York State. One of the few roadways they kept open when the second fuel crisis hit. It’s suicide going faster than fifty on it, and there’s only two lanes. Designed by Mickey Mouse in the late nineteen-thirties, expanded in the nineties and contracted right back again in ’07. Used to be pretty when I was a kid: all green, lots of trees.” Talking in a reassuring historian’s voice, Corliss guided the car off the parkway and began to cut and weave down a series of narrow roads, making lefts and rights without any apparent reason. Tietjen knew they were still headed vaguely west by the slant of the sun, but that was all he was certain of. “Before they cut the big private tracts around here into development lots—ahh.” A note of guarded satisfaction. “I think we’re in New York, John. No sign of the Guard anywhere?”
There was no sign of anything at all. The silence was eerie. Certainly there was no sign of mass hysteria. Maybe it was all crazy, Tietjen thought. Maybe everything would be okay after all.
Corliss took the car left, right, then left again, kitty-cornering southwesterly. Tietjen was relaxed in his seat, watching the small, carefully tended houses as they passed them; a SCHOOL CROSSING sign that shone in the midmorning sunshine. The taut plane of Corliss’s cheek was beginning to relax. They turned a corner and another. Then Corliss brought the car to a slamming, violent stop.
Three cars had been overturned and were on fire in the middle of a crossroad. The fire fed on itself in bursts of smoke, gusts of flame that plumed upward in the clear daylight. Worse was the bedraggled crowd of people that stood, mesmerized by the gouts of flame.
“Jesus God,” Corliss
“Yeah, well.” The Guard checked over Corliss’s license, the vehicle permits, their IDs. At last he waved them on. “Good luck,” he called, but as if he doubted they would find any luck at all.
Corliss let out a gust of breath that kept time with the car’s acceleration. “Nice, John. Nice. You’ve earned your passage, so to speak. The state line.” Another exhalation. “Jesus, I hope Meggie’s okay.” Then, smiling curiously, “You didn’t seem fazed by that Purchase-to-the-Hudson business.”
“I don’t know where Purchase is. Is it bad?”
Corliss laughed. “Damn, yes. Basically everything from the Connecticut–New York border across to Tarrytown and the Hudson, down into Sovereign New York. I’m glad you said what you said to him—I couldn’t think that fast. Where in the city is it you mean to get?”
“Manhattan. As far in as you’ll take me, and walk the rest of the way unless I can find another ride.”
Corliss shrugged. “If we can get across the border I’ll bring you down to Tuckahoe with me, but then—I left Margaret with an old .32. I think she’d use it, but I hope she doesn’t have to. Purchase to the river. Jesus H. Christ.”
But Tietjen was sinking into his own panic, hearing the bravado of his plans, wondering how he was going to get to the city and what he would find there. Not who, he realized. What. He felt a dim anger at himself; what about the boys, what about Irene? What the hell was wrong with him?
But everyone seemed to think them as good as dead. There would be time to mourn later. Now he had to know.
The keening voice under all thought insisted: Home.
For a while the two men rode in silence.
“We’re getting close to Greenwich,” Corliss said at last. “Looks like we’ll have to run the line on one of the small roads. Hell, they can’t have this whole area covered.”
“You know it well?”
“Grew up around here. Hope I remember what I think I do.” Corliss smiled a mirthless smile, ridges of white stubble bracketing his mouth. “We’ll get off the parkway here and maybe I can find one of them.”
“Is that what this was? A parkway? Doesn’t look like much.”
“The Merritt Parkway. Turns into the Hutchinson once we get into New York State. One of the few roadways they kept open when the second fuel crisis hit. It’s suicide going faster than fifty on it, and there’s only two lanes. Designed by Mickey Mouse in the late nineteen-thirties, expanded in the nineties and contracted right back again in ’07. Used to be pretty when I was a kid: all green, lots of trees.” Talking in a reassuring historian’s voice, Corliss guided the car off the parkway and began to cut and weave down a series of narrow roads, making lefts and rights without any apparent reason. Tietjen knew they were still headed vaguely west by the slant of the sun, but that was all he was certain of. “Before they cut the big private tracts around here into development lots—ahh.” A note of guarded satisfaction. “I think we’re in New York, John. No sign of the Guard anywhere?”
There was no sign of anything at all. The silence was eerie. Certainly there was no sign of mass hysteria. Maybe it was all crazy, Tietjen thought. Maybe everything would be okay after all.
Corliss took the car left, right, then left again, kitty-cornering southwesterly. Tietjen was relaxed in his seat, watching the small, carefully tended houses as they passed them; a SCHOOL CROSSING sign that shone in the midmorning sunshine. The taut plane of Corliss’s cheek was beginning to relax. They turned a corner and another. Then Corliss brought the car to a slamming, violent stop.
Three cars had been overturned and were on fire in the middle of a crossroad. The fire fed on itself in bursts of smoke, gusts of flame that plumed upward in the clear daylight. Worse was the bedraggled crowd of people that stood, mesmerized by the gouts of flame.
“Jesus God,” Corliss
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