Gerry Boomers

Illustration by John Stevens

Ed Ronson regarded the dying razor in his hand, the soft buzz fading as he stared at it.

So much for manufacturer’s claims, he mused. The charge should have held for at least a month, and he had recharged the razor only five days earlier. But then he remembered that it had been plugged in the day the power went off, and must not have had a chance to become fully charged.

Leaning on the edge of the sink, he bent closer to the mirror and ran a hand over his chin, then down his neck and over both cheeks. The small amount of morning sunlight streaming through the tiny window over the bathtub made it difficult to see even with the shower curtain pulled aside, but his face felt smooth enough. He’d look just fine at the meeting. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to use a blade for a couple more days. Not having shaved with a blade for at least forty years, the thought of using one on a daily basis until the power returned didn’t thrill him. He frowned at himself in the mirror.

“Do they even make shaving cream anymore?” he asked the reflection mere inches from his nose. He stood straighter, then added under his breath, “Damned Chinese.”

“Does that mean if you cut yourself to ribbons shaving, that’s the fault of the damned Chinese, too?”

He smiled and looked over his shoulder to find Carol leaning against the door frame, her arms folded across her chest in mock reproach. “Yeah, why not? We’ve been blaming everything else on them for the last few days.” He set the dead razor in its regular spot on the shelf below the mirror and leaned in to better examine his reflection once more. “How long have you been there?” he asked.

“A while.” She tried to keep up a pretense of disapproval at his offhand remark, but failed, and allowed a smile to spread across her features. “You missed a spot.” She reached out and ran the tip of her index finger beneath a corner of his gray mustache, making a faint scratching sound. “You know, I’ve enjoyed watching you shave and get ready for your day for nearly forty years now,” she said, encircling her arms around his waist from behind. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned her chin on his right shoulder and looked at their reflection in the mirror. “Why should it be any different just because of some stupid Chinese satellite? Why should that change anything—anything important, anyway?”

“It shouldn’t.” He kissed her once, then turned away from the mirror to embrace her. “And I hope it never does.”

Still encircled in his arms, she sighed deeply and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Damned Chinese.”

“What? What did you say?”

She pulled away slightly, staring past him into the mirror and playing her hand across her face and neck. “It’s these shadows. With no light in here but the window, the shadows make me look so old.”

He followed her gaze and was disturbed by the true look of concern in her eyes. Why was she so upset by her appearance? Ignoring his own reflection he studied his wife in the mirror. She still wore her hair long and straight and, although it glowed silver gray even in the dim lighting, it was thick and full bodied, framing her face perfectly. He pulled her hair back and placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the strength and muscle tone of a body that had been well taken care of. Even at sixty-eight she still had a flush of youth about her face. But for the color of her hair and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her deep blue eyes, in his mind she looked little changed from the girl he’d met at the Eagles concert in New Haven when she was just twenty-three.

“You look fine,” he said sincerely, bringing the smile back to her face, “and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather look at.”

He nuzzled her neck and she leaned her head back, closing her eyes and smiling warmly.

“I like that.”

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked, turning her around by the shoulders.

“I think so.”

They embraced and kissed again, enjoying the quiet moment. A soft, spring breeze played through the bathroom, fluttering the shower curtain and bringing with it the gentle fragrance of lilacs that mixed delightfully with the scent of Carol’s hair and the aroma of coffee from the propane camp stove he’d set up for her in the kitchen. A bird was singing somewhere outside, but he couldn’t tell for sure what kind it was. He held her lovingly for several moments, enjoying the closeness they shared, and thought idly that had it not been for the lack of electricity—with the lights on, the window shut, and the bathroom vent fan running annoyingly overhead-—this moment might never have occurred. And at seventy-one, he wanted to enjoy as many moments like this as he could.

He glanced at his watch, a battered old Timex, and saw that everyone was probably at Brandon’s house already, gathering to see the latest news about the blackout, but he didn’t mind so much if they arrived a few minutes late. There was little chance the news would be any different today than it was the day before. And this moment was much more important.

Maybe the Chinese weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh-oh, C.D. must be in the mood to needle someone today,” Ed said as they strolled across the tiny manicured lawn toward Brandon’s house. He squeezed Carol’s hand and nodded ahead of them at the white-haired man sitting on the steps of the house’s side door.

C.D. Merle took a long drag on his cigarette, then waved to them in greeting. His best friend had quit smoking—successfully—just before the turn of the century, and hadn’t touched one until the genetically altered safe tobacco had been approved by the FDA a few years earlier. He claimed not to really like them anymore, but with the threat of cigarette-caused disease and nicotine addiction nonexistent, he indulged himself now and again, more out of a sense of duty than anything else. “Besides,” C.D. had confided to him on more than one occasion, “the Cybermuppets never grew up around smoke. It really pisses them off.” C.D. took more pleasure in irking his younger neighbors than did most folks, and had raised the practice to the status of spectator sport. It was he who had coined the term “Cybermuppet”—Cybernetic Middle-aged Urban Professional—and he used it at every opportunity.

In turn, Jason had begun referring to C.D.—and obliquely to Ed—as “Geriatric Boomers”—or Gerry Boomers for short.

“I was beginning to wonder what’d happened to you two,” he called from the steps as he rose slowly to greet them. “Another five minutes and I would’ve come to see what you were doing.” He grinned broadly, then added, “Who knows? I might even have knocked first.” He kissed Carol on the cheek, and shook Ed’s hand warmly.

“Heather throw you out again?” Carol asked, nodding toward the house.

“Yeah.” C.D. laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Brandon, Jason and the rest of them were all arguing about which DBS they wanted me to tune in and I got fed up with the lot of them. Just set the screwdriver down on top of the set, took a seat and lit up. Works every time.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe in the exact center of the bottom step where Brandon’s wife Heather would be sure to see it.

“You’re incorrigible,” Carol said, shaking her head. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yep.” C.D. reached for the door, but paused before pulling it open. “And I don’t want to catch you sneaking back out here later and picking it up, either.” He pointed at the cigarette butt as he held the door for her. “Be in in a sec’. I want to talk to Eddie.”

She smiled at him, then gave her husband a quick kiss before disappearing inside.

Once they were alone, C.D. raised an eyebrow mischievously. “So… just what were you two up to?”

“Hey! It’s none of your damn business.”

“Uh-huh.” The grin returned. “That’s what I thought.”

“So what’s been happening in there?” Ed asked, changing the subject. “What have we missed?”

“Same old shit.” C.D. pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and started to remove one, but when he saw that he had only a few left he changed his mind and slipped them back into his shirt. “I swear, Eddie, these people just aren’t happy unless they’re unhappy about something. They were already arguing when I got here and it just never quit: ‘Who’s going to get the power restored? Is the President going to let the Chinese go unpunished? Why can’t we get temporary communications set up so I can get back on-line?’ Back and forth, back and forth. Brandon and Heather, the Kents, the Powells, all of them. And Jason’s the worst of the lot.”

“Jason thinks he’s in charge again? Great.” Ed got along well with most of his neighbors, but the fifty-three-year-old investment banking consultant somehow managed to get on the nerves of even the most tolerant among them. Even Carol, who had a way of seeing the best in just about anyone, didn’t care to spend too much time around the man.

“Yeah. So, here I am, your friendly neighborhood electronics expert, trying to get that damned antique of Brandon’s hooked into the DBS and he’s trying to tell me how to do it. Brandon reminds him that it’s his set. Jason starts yelling about how what he needs to know is more important. I remind them both that the spare parts for the DBS receiver are mine, and they can go right back into the shielded metal desk in my basement just as easily as they came out.”

“The usual.”

C.D. nodded. “Yeah. The usual. I’m sorry now I even got the old set up and running.”

Ed sighed heavily and looked around the neighborhood. Dutch Elm Acres was one of those cluster housing developments that started cropping up at the turn of the century, before the Crash. All the houses were packed together with tidy little front yards; the extra space in the subdivision was leased to a farmer who grew hay for a horse breeder over in Marlborough. For some reason, it had taken fifty years for real estate developers to figure out that no one really needed a front lawn fifty feet deep.

The only problem with this development, though, was that the homeowners association was split between the old-timers who were moving here on retirement, and the younger owners who still worked all day. The older generation, all Baby Boomers, resented the pushy attitude of the “youngsters,” who seemed to want to set rules for everything and everyone. The rule against parking cars in driveways or on the street had nearly brought C.D. and Jason to blows.

As he surveyed the neighborhood, Ed saw that a few kids, who undoubtedly thought more highly of the Chinese than did their parents, were playing on the common green that made up the central area of the subdivision. With school canceled, they were making the best of their unexpected gilt of free time. The ground was soft and damp following the previous night s spring showers, so typical for central Connecticut this time of year, and even from here he could see that each child sported knees and elbows that were thoroughly mud and grass stained.

He crossed the few steps to the end of the short walkway and scanned first one way up the deserted street, then the other. Cars were scattered here and there, most in driveways or parked at the curb like his own (C.D. had won the parking debate), but a few still remained in the middle of the street where their electrical systems had died when the EMP from the orbiting Chinese nuke had disabled most of the eastern seaboard from Maine to Baltimore. The association had discussed pushing the worthless vehicles to the side, but no one had yet gotten around to actually getting the effort organized. Meanwhile, nothing moved on the street; nothing, that is, except the steady breeze. And, but for the occasional squeal of joy from the direction of the children, it was utterly, delightfully quiet.

“They just don’t get it, do they C.D.?”

“What’s that?” his friend asked, joining him at the curb.

“All of this.” He swept his arm around, indicating what he’d been observing. “The peace and quiet, the lack of pressure, the… slowness of all of this. I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking all that forward to things getting back to normal.” A sudden banging came from behind them and they both turned to see Jason knocking on the window, waving for them to come in. The look on his face told them it was anything but a cordial invitation.

“Aw, shit,” C.D. spat. “I swear that guy’s coming unwrapped. Five days off-line and he’s like a stone dead junkie going cold turkey who’s decided he’d rather get a fix.” He sighed and cursed again under his breath, then abruptly smiled cheerfully again. “But then, if we didn’t have him around to make fun of, what real entertainment would you and I have, huh?”

“If you didn’t have Jason and the others to pick on,” Ed added, “I think you’d’ve cashed in years ago.”

C.D. chuckled in agreement. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Once more, the sound of Jason banging on the window reached their ears. Looking to the house again, they both saw Carol standing with him this time, a reproachful look on her face that said they’d kept him waiting long enough. “However… I suppose I’m just as curious as everyone else about what’s going on,” C.D. concluded as the two of them headed up the driveway past Brandon’s BEMW. He paused a moment by the dead vehicle, its hood still open from when he had cannibalized the flywheel battery to power Brandon’s antique TV, and touched his friend on the shoulder. “Hey—let you in on a secret?”

Ed looked at him and saw the beginnings of the mischievous grin he’d come to know “All right, shoot.”

“I’ve already got it linked to the DBS; it’s tuned and ready to go. All he needed to do was connect the antenna lead.” C.D. beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Can you believe that? One screw, that’s it.”

Ed reached the door first. “Carol’s right, you know,” he said, laughing, and held the door open for his friend. “You really are incorrigible.”

They entered through the kitchen, which was, like the rest of the house, decorated in early Baby Boomer. Ed had always admired the kitchen, liked the way the enameled kitchen set and white metal Levittown cabinets reminded him of his own childhood. To Brandon and Heather Stavish, these were antiques; to Carol and him—and C.D. too, he supposed—it was like coming home. The pleasant thought was interrupted by the sound of a heated discussion coming from the living room where Jason Kent, as usual, was expounding on his theories of what really happened when the Chinese satellite accidentally detonated over the Atlantic. As they listened at the doorway, it was clear that everyone else in the room had his own thoughts as to what had happened and why, and were quick to contradict anything Jason said, point and counterpoint, in pretty much the same manner as they had when they had gathered the previous day. And the day before that. Ed and C.D. had heard it all enough times in the past few days to have memorized the routine. But Jason, driven by whatever personal demons made him tick, always had to be the one in charge, the one who was always somewhere center stage.

Jason liked to unwind on weekends by going up to Wolf Den State Park for a game of paintball. C.D. was always going on about how damned stupid it was to make a game of running around in the woods shooting at people. Too many good kids that he knew too many years ago had gotten killed doing it for real for it to be any kind of fun, he said, galled that Jason considered it a form of relaxation.

Finally noticing the two of them standing in the kitchen entrance, the man stopped mid-sentence.

“It’s about damned time! Where the hell have you been?”

“Outside,” C.D. spat back sharply. “Getting a break from you.”

Jason, caught off guard for a moment by the older man’s bluntness, stared dumbly at C.D., his mouth working—for once—uselessly. When he finally managed to collect his thoughts enough to reply, it was with a level, even voice that did not quite hide the anger behind his words. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

“I think I’m the guy who’s going to shove that old TV up your rear end if you don’t get off your high horse and start acting a little more like a human being.”

His button pushed, Jason rose from his spot on the sofa, crossing to C.D. in a few steps.

Ed stepped into the room. “Look, Jace—”

“No, Eddie.” C.D.’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “This has gone on long enough.” He turned back to the other man. “You want me to play fix it with these fucking antiques, then you’re gonna have to stop being such an asshole. Look, we all want to know what the hell’s going on.” He gazed around the room, taking in Ja-son’s wife Brittany, Brandon and Heather, the Powells sitting together on the loveseat, Carol and Ed. “What makes you think you’re more important than Brandon? Or Chad and Tanya?”

“Because nobody else here has anything pending, that’s why!” His voice, moments earlier relatively calm, if pointed, was now dripping with anger. “The rest of you can treat this all like some kind of holiday, but I’ve been working on this merger for months.”

At that, Brandon was on his feet. “Now hold on just a minute—”

“Months! Do you hear me?” he said again, ignoring Brandon. His wife touched his arm, and although he jerked it away he did force himself to calm down. “Look, the political world may be turned upside down over this thing, and everybody’s anxious to point the linger at everybody else, but a hell of a lot of other things are going on as usual. The world markets may be going nuts, but they’re still going. It’s only the East Coast that’s out of the picture, which means I’m out of the picture.” He looked around the room, finding little support among the collected faces, and ran his hands back through his perfect hair in frustration. He almost looked like he was going to cry. “The Kishuri Blankenburg merger isn’t going to wait, especially with what’s going on in the Far East over all this. If I don’t get back on-line and seal this thing, I stand to lose… You people just don’t understand. I stand to lose a lot.”

C.D. was unimpressed. “Maybe if you’d stop acting so high and mighty, the rest of us might actually care, huh?”

Jason approached him menacingly, jabbing his finger in front of him to emphasize his words. “And maybe if you’d stop talking to the rest of us like we’re a bunch of stupid children—”

“You want to see what happens to spoiled brats?” C.D. stood his ground, ready to take on the younger man right there and then.

“That’s enough!” Carol shouted. “You’re all acting like spoiled children!”

C.D. started to smile, apparently thinking she was backing him up until she turned sharply to him.

“That goes for you, too, C.D.” She paused, lowering her voice. “Especially you. I swear, sometimes I think you’re the worst of the lot.”

Jason remained where he was for several seconds, looking back and forth from C.D. to Carol, then retook his seat next to Brittany on the sofa. Likewise, Brandon and Chad sat back down. No one said anything.

“Listen,” Carol said evenly, taking advantage of the moment of silence. “We’re all on edge here.” C.D. opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it as she glared at him and went on. “God knows what’s going to come out of all of this. The last thing we need is to be at each others’ throats right now.”

His wife having set the tone, Ed saw an opportunity to step in. “Carol’s right. C.D.? Can you get the TV to work?”

“Yeah,” C.D. replied curtly, and walked to the old set. The Stavishes had a state-of-the-art video center, of course, tucked away in the family room; but it was useless following the EMP, and would remain just so much junk long after the power was restored. Fortunately, like the rest of the decor in the Stavish house, the TV kept “for show” in the living room was an antique. An old Sears Silvertone with a small, almost perfectly round screen set into the front of an incongruously large wooden cabinet, the set had no complex integrated circuitry or chips and was largely unaffected by the EMP. Although not designed for direct input, C.D. had managed to remove the back and rig a makeshift harness that connected a rebuilt DBS receiver onto the antenna leads.

Not letting on that Brandon could have finished the connection himself—for fear of Carol’s wrath, Ed assumed—C.D. tightened the leads and powered up the set. The picture started as a dot in the center of the round tube, then widened to a rolling black and white image that did not quite fill the screen once it finally came to a stop.

“Damn, I was afraid of that.” C.D. slipped the screwdriver absently into a shirt pocket and crossed his arms as he regarded the image. “The battery’s just about tapped out. We’re gonna have to strip another one of the cars if we expect to—”

“Shhhhhh!” Jason had left the sofa, and was now kneeling closer to the old set, staring intently at the weak picture. He was not pleased. “This… this is CBS, not Business Net.” He looked up at C.D., his face filled with anger. “This isn’t Business Net! I thought you were tuning it to SatStar Five.”

“SatStar Five is off-line,” C.D. replied simply. “A lot of them have been dropping off as eastern ground links affected by the EMP fall apart one by one. I don’t know what happened to this one, and frankly I don’t care. Considering I shouldn’t even have been able to tie into the commercial satellite in the first place, you ought to be grateful I could get this much.”

“But this doesn’t give me anything I can use!”

“Jace, come on,” Brandon put in. “I was hoping for Business Net, too; but at least this is something.”

Disgusted, Jason stormed out of the house, slamming the screen door behind him. Brittany smiled a weak apology on her husband’s behalf, then wordlessly followed him out. The others, except for Carol and C.D., were already too enraptured with what the announcer was saying to pay much attention; but presently, even the two of them were drawn to the set along with the rest.

The reports were bleak, with casualties now topping thirty thousand. While the nuke itself had done no direct blast damage, the EMP had been devastating: Airliners and private planes, commercial shipping and fishing boats, railroads, hospitals—anything that depended on sophisticated electronics simply ceased functioning. No one other than those with shielded facilities—Coast Guard, Civil Defense, National Guard, military bases and some police and fire departments—had anything that still worked. As a result, there had been riots and looting in the larger cities, confusion and lack of supplies in the smaller towns. And still, they had to consider themselves lucky: more than 90 percent of the EMP had been restricted to open sea. If the satellite had been only a few hundred miles farther west when it blew…. The thought was too disturbing to consider.

Ed had been right. The news had changed little from the day before. The only thing different was the degree to which people were being affected—and now they had pictures.

He shook his head sadly and, unnoticed, slipped out into the spring sunshine.

The garage smelled good. The scents of old oil and grease, wood and sawdust, a touch of rust, grass clippings still clinging to the lawnmower, and musty newspapers stacked long past the time when they should have been recycled, all seemed to mix together in a way that comforted Ed as much as a favorite sweater and hot chocolate on a chilly day. Much, much better, he thought, than Brandon’s or Jason’s garage must smell—their electric cars and charging equipment lent little more than the odor of plastic and ozone. This is what a garage was meant to smell like, he thought, running his hands over the turquoise blue metal dashboard of the 1957 Chevrolet Nomad wagon. Although a thin layer of dust covered almost everything in the small garage, the wan light from the doorway reflected brightly off the matching turquoise hood of the car. A garage is a place for storing memories as much as anything else.

He loved the car as much as any possession a man could have. The antique, lovingly restored years ago and meticulously maintained since, kept him rooted to his being better than anything else in the integrated, cybernetic, on-line, virtual one thing or another that everyday life had become. Only Carol had more power to keep him sane in a crazy world. To Brandon, a house full of expensive Baby Boomer antiques was the ultimate Cypermuppet status symbol. To Ed, they were creature comforts.

He’d kept the car through the worst days after the Crash, even when he had to put everything he owned on the line to keep the hardware store open. When he had his first heart trouble a few years back, he was afraid he might lose the beautiful machine—and at times he resented his ability to replace the worn out parts in her while he had to live with his own.

Sometimes, when Carol wasn’t around and he was missing her terribly, he’d sit in the car and reminisce. Sometimes, when he had a headache or wasn’t feeling well, the comfortable surroundings worked better than any doctor s cure. And sometimes it was all right to sit in the old car, for no reason at all other than to just be alone. Just listen to whatever he could pick up on the old AM radio, sit back, and think. Carol always understood.

“When’s the last time you drove this thing?”

Startled, Ed turned sharply in the front seat to find C.D. leaning against the door frame. He’d gone home after leaving Brandon’s, as he had retrieved the bulky fatigue jacket that was his trademark. Oversized and badly frayed, he nearly disappeared into it as he leaned there with his hands thrust deep into the side pockets. How many had he owned over the years? He’d always bring them home all new and deep olive green, wear them till they faded to dull green and finally fell apart, then find another at some surplus store before starting the cycle all over again. C.D. crossed the few steps from the door and leaned in the open window on the driver’s side of the Chevy, nodding approval at the immaculately restored interior.

“Hell,” he went on, “when’s the last time you even rolled the door up and let some sunshine in on it?”

Ed leaned back in the seat, gripping the oversized steering wheel in both hands. “I was six years old when this car rolled off the line.” He shook his head, not bothering to do the math. “The clutch is going; it’s all right for now but I’ll have to replace it one of these days. The tires are thin; I can special order them, but they’re expensive. The radio would probably work if we gave the battery a good charging.”

“I can do that.”

Ed looked at his friend, one eyebrow raised. “How about gas? Have you tried to find gasoline lately? Have you priced it?” He ran his hands lovingly around the steering wheel, then fingered the polished chrome of the horn ring briefly before hooking a thumb toward a dusty picture frame nailed to the garage wall. Inside the frame was a yellowed document, the words PERMIT: GASOLINE FUELED ANTIQUE VEHICLE barely visible through the hazy glass. “Besides,” he added softly, “my ticket expired years ago. Never bothered to renew it.”

C.D. stood up and walked around the rear of the car, saying, “You are one sorry sight. You know that?” He got in the passenger side and closed the door with a refreshingly solid thud they both knew they would never hear on one of their modem lightweight electric vehicles, then dug into one of the pockets of the fatigue jacket. “Here,” he said, handing a can to his friend. “Brought you a present.”

“A little early for—hey, it’s cold! How in the hell did you…?”

C.D. laughed and, producing another can of beer from the jacket, snapped the top and took a loud slurping chug. “The day after the power went and it looked like it wasn’t coming back for a while, I chucked everything I had into the chest freezer in the basement. You know, I don’t think I’ve cleaned the damned thing out since Tammy—” He paused suddenly, reflecting quietly for a moment. “Well… it’s been years. There was so much frost and ice accumulated in it that it’s made a wonderful cooler this past week. Starting to thaw out fast, though. These wouldn’t have stayed cold much longer and I thought…. Well, after that nonsense with Jason this afternoon I figured I’d find you here.” He held the can out and tapped it lightly against Ed’s. “Cheers, pal.”

“Yeah.” Ed snapped the top on his own can. “Cheers.”

Neither man said anything for several minutes as they sipped quietly on the cold beers. Finally, C.D. turned to him. “Tell me: What would you do if you could get this thing running again?”

Ed considered it a moment. “Oh, I don’t know… drive to the beach and cruise for babes?”

“Not without Carol, you wouldn’t,” C.D. laughed.

“You’re right there.” Ed sighed deeply and finished the last bit of foam at the bottom of the can. “I’d probably do something sensible like drive down to Paul and Joanie’s and stock up on my heart medicine and Carol’s pills.”

He crushed the flimsy can and tossed it out the window at the recycling bin. The can clattered far short of the mark and disappeared somewhere behind a box of dusty Mason jars, but he didn’t care.

“You’ve got no sense of romance or adventure, Eddie,” his friend said. “I like the beach idea better.” C.D. finished what was left of his beer, then in one smooth fluid motion he crushed the can, flung it out his window over the roof of the Chevy dead center into the recycling bin. Saying nothing, he got out of the car, went to the garage door and tugged it open, rolling it noisily up and over the garage ceiling. He stood there a moment, his hands gripping the bottom of the roll-up door above his head, and leaned in over the gleaming hood of the Chevy.

“I know where we can get some gas.”

The junkyard was little more than the rotting corpse of what was left of America’s love affair with the internal combustion engine.

A lot of junk dealers had gotten into the boom when the 20th century auto was made obsolete by the introduction of efficient flywheel driven electric cars. Most of the old vehicles were recycled for their metal, but very shortly the market for recycled cars was glutted and no one wanted to buy the things. There were so many junkers at the end that a lot of small yards went belly-up before they could find someone to haul away their scrap. This particular junkyard was not all that small and extended nearly all the way down to the railroad tracks that passed within a mile of Dutch Elm, on their way to Hartford to the northwest.

“A 1968 4-4-2,” Ed said, indicating a rusting hulk three rows down the hill. The car had once been dark green, but only a few remaining patches of weathered paint remained to give the fact away. He leaned back against the rear fender of the car they were tapping, arms crossed and head tilted back in reflection. “My mom’s was a silver blue color that was real popular then. I remember begging her to let me take it to the prom in.…” He turned, addressing the pair of legs sticking out from underneath the car. The legs thrashed as the man struggled with the gas tank, but Ed, lost in the remembrance, barely noticed. “What would that have been? May of ’69? I was a senior at Western Hills.”

“How the hell would I know?” C.D.’s voice was muffled, distracted. The tap he was using to pierce the tank didn’t seem to be cooperating. “I was sitting in water up to my ass in some ditch on the other side of the world in ’69. All I seem to recall about—damn!” There was sharp clanking sound as his tools slipped, a pause, then more metallic fumbling as he resumed his work on the gas tank. “All I remember about ’69 is that an awful lot of guys in bamboo hats were doing their best to see to it I never saw an Oldsmobile 4-4-2 again. Hey, listen to this.” He thumped on the tank with his fist; the sound was dull and deep, not the hollow echo they had heard so much that afternoon. “I think we got us a full one here. Or nearly full, anyway. Hang on…” There was another moment of metal hitting metal, then, “Give me a hand down here, would you?”

“Coming.” A dozen plastic juice and milk jugs were scattered at Ed’s feet, one of which was half full of gas—the meager amount the result of several hours’ work. The rest, empty and nearly feather light, tumbled and rolled every which way as Ed got to his knees and joined C.D. beneath the car. His friend was filthy, his fatigue jacket smeared with grease, dirt and rust. Of course, for C.D., that was just the way he liked it best. His left sleeve was soaked well past the elbow, and the pungent reek of gasoline was everywhere. A slight trickle came from the tank at a spot where C.D. had his thumb pressed tightly. “I’m here,” he said once he was in position on his belly. “Right behind you.”

Not taking his eyes from the tank, C.D. passed the tools over his shoulder with his free hand. “Start giving me those jugs. One at a time.”

C.D. took the first jug and eased it up under the tank at the same time he pulled his thumb off, a veritable gush of dirty brown liquid spewing out. It took a moment to get the jug into a position where more of it actually went in the opening rather than down his arm, but once in place the jug filled steadily, the dark brown changing gradually to a lighter reddish amber as the rusty water trapped beneath the gas in the tank cleared the hole.

“Not bad,” Ed said as C.D. plugged the hole with his thumb and passed the filled jug to him. The brown rust water already separating from the lighter gasoline took up only the lower third of the jug—either the sealed tank of the late model vehicle had prevented a great deal of condensation or, better still, the tank had been topped off just before the car was junked. Not bothering to cap the jug yet, he set it firmly into the dirt and quickly handed over another empty one. This time only clear, pure gasoline flowed out of the hole.

Fifteen minutes later the two of them sat in the dirt, exhausted, their backs resting heavily against one of the rotted tires on the car they’d just tapped. Scattered in and around their extended legs was an odd assortment of containers, each filled to the top with gas. In all, they had managed to amass, to Ed’s best guess, maybe slightly more than twelve gallons of the precious fuel.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he said, wiping the back of a grimy hand across his forehead. His joints ached and his muscles protested—too much time crawling around on ground that never saw the sunshine. The stench of gasoline on his hands and clothes was almost overpowering.

“Hey, I’m two years older than you.” Ed could hear a slight wheeze in C.D.’s voice as he rose, brushing uselessly at his clothing. “Feels good, though, don’t it? When’s the last time you suppose Jason or Brandon did any real physical work? Something that didn’t require them to be plugged in or on-line with their invisible corporate whatevers, I mean.”

“Who knows,” he replied. “And who cares. Come on, Carol’s going to think we got lost out here.” All but one of the filled jugs had handles molded into them, and they set about gathering them into a straight line with the handles turned in such a way that when C.D. slipped a broken tie rod through them, it formed a serviceable carrying pole. Ed hefted the remaining jug himself, carrying it under his free arm.

“I used to regret that Tammy and I never had kids,” C.D. offered as they climbed the steep path leading out of the junkyard and back through the woods. “But in the last few years of living next to the Cypermuppets, I’ve looked at it almost as a blessing in disguise. I’m glad Paul turned out OK. You and Carol got lucky with him, you know that?”

“I know; you’re right.” Ed smiled proudly as he thought of his son, undoubtedly buried in work at the clinic in Old Saybrook. “Luck, good genes, the fact that Carol was the best mother he could ever have, or the simple grace of God—whatever it was, I’m glad for it. Thanks.”

They were up to the old railbed when Ed felt the fluttering in his chest. His head grew light and the edges of his vision closed in.

“Hey, are you all right?” C.D. asked.

“No, as a matter of fact. I need to sit down.” He stumbled to the ground and tried to catch his breath. He hated this. It made him feel angry and frustrated. Worse, he hated the sense that gnawed at the back of his head that this was a damn stupid place to die. Carol would be mad at him if he checked out here.

He fumbled in his pocket for his pills, pulled one out of the small tin, and chewed it dry. “These things taste terrible. But I need them to keep the pump running smooth. It helps with the rhythm.”

“Don’t scare me like that, man,” his friend said once he realized it wasn’t serious. He dropped to the ground beside him, then pulled the cigarette pack out of his pocket and drew out what looked like a thin white stick, lit the end, and inhaled deeply. “You don’t want any of this, do you?”

“Is that a joint? Geez, C.D., that would kill me in a minute.”

“That’s what 1 figured. God, getting old is a bitch.”

Ed leaned back against the embankment as the heart pill began to take effect, bringing the fluttering under control. “I don’t think of it as getting old,” he said. “Hell, I don’t feel old, just a little uncomfortable now and then.”

C.D. held the smoke in, then exhaled in a rush. “You know, I never thought we’d get old. Not like my grandparents, cranky and self-centered.”

“I know what you mean,” Ed replied, his breath returning to him. “I remember when I figured out what had happened to them. It wasn’t that they got cranky and self-centered in their old age… they were like that when they were young, too. We just figured it was their age. That’s why we don’t feel old. We haven’t changed. Not inside, where it counts.”

“That must be why all those cars back there looked new to me,” C.D. said.

“Did you notice that too? They weren’t old, just rusty.”

“Like you and me?”

Ed smiled. “Exactly.”

“I always figured that we’d get wise and mellow in our old age,” C.D. said, sniffing at the tendril of smoke coming from the end of his joint. “But lately I’ve come to realize that it isn’t going to happen.”

“That’s because we got wise and mellow in our youth.”

C.D. thought it over for a moment. “I guess you’re right. I mean, I got all the answers I ever needed about life, death, and the Universe when I was sitting in the jungle getting my sorry ass shot at. It was like the rest of my life was just an afterthought to one brilliant moment of great awakening.”

“I hope it’s been more than that.”

“Well, sure. It’s been a long, strange trip since then, too. But lately I’ve been missing those days. When we had nothing to lose, when every day was a new adventure, when every time you went around a corner, you found something new and exciting and wonderful. And now, just when we thought we were coming to the end, the Chinese put out the lights on the whole freaking East Coast. Who would’ve thought it, huh? And we’re lucky enough to have it happen when we’ve got nothing left to lose. You know, there is one thing I like about getting old—I’m as carefree and irresponsible as I was when I got home from Nam. Nothing to lose, no one to answer to, and nowhere I have to be.”

“Well, you may be footloose and fancy free, but I have a wife who’s probably worried sick about me,” Ed said, pulling himself to his feet. “And the more worried she gets about me, the more pissed off she gets at you. Let’s go.”

C.D. lifted his end of the tie rod and they took off down the rail bed. “Are you sure you don’t want a hit of this?”

Ed glared over his shoulder.

“Naw, I guess not.”

They started work on the Chevy the next morning. After fixing breakfast on the camp stove, they pulled the garage door up and rolled the car out into the sunshine where they could see what they were doing. Between the countless trips to C.D.’s basement for tools and materials, extra time spent jury-rigging incorrect parts until they fit, and finally bringing the battery to a full charge, the Sun was already low in the sky by the time they finished.

“This is it.” Fred held the key in his hand, fingering the old Chevrolet logo on the key chain. Carol had given it to him years ago, and the enameling—not to mention the once shiny silver plating—had all but worn off. He slipped the key into the ignition on the dashboard and, placing his foot firmly on the gas pedal, gave it a sharp turn. The starter cranked loudly, but ineffectively, as he held it for nearly half a minute.

He released the key, pressed the accelerator a few times, then tried again as he continued to pump the gas pedal softly.

“Careful,” C.D. warned. “Not too much.”

“Hey, I know what I’m doing.”

He was about to let go of the ignition when it caught. Weak and chugging comically like in some cartoon, the sputtering motor kept turning over for nearly a full minute before finally stalling out. The dense exhaust that had poured from the tailpipe at the attempt wafted in small clouds over the garage. Quiet once more, they heard the barking of a dog roused by what must have been, to it and probably anybody else within earshot, an unfamiliar and intrusive noise.

He turned off the ignition, pumped the gas again, and said, “This’ll do it. This time for sure.”

The engine caught almost immediately. It idled roughly, sending an occasional loud pop! out the back, but did not die this time. He pushed in the clutch, put the Chevy in first, and started rolling it slowly toward the street.

“Yes!” Ecstatic, C.D. hopped in next to his friend and slammed the door. “Where we going, boss?”

“Hold your horses, will you?” Grinning nearly as broadly as C.D., Ed bought the car to a stop at the end of the short driveway and set the brake, then pressed the gas several times, revving the engine higher and higher. Each time he did that the sound from beneath the Chevy’s hood became a bit smoother, a bit more resonant. “Look, I haven’t driven this thing anywhere in” His voice trailed off as he tried to remember. “My God, I think Paul was still in medical school. Anyway,” he said, looking up into the late afternoon sky, “it’ll be dark before long. When I take her out for the first time, I want everyone to see her in the daylight.”

“I don’t blame you, pal.” C.D. drummed his hands excitedly on the dash. “Yes! I don’t blame you one bit.”

They continued to sit in the ’57 as Ed let the motor run. Occasionally he’d rev the engine a bit and they’d listen intently to the steady purr of the motor. The deep, rich sound, so alien to the high-tech, plugged-in world of their neighbors, drifted unchallenged by any other man-made noise out over the homes of Dutch Elm Acres.

To both men, the sound was just about the sweetest thing they’d heard in decades.

“Ed, honey. Come on, get up.”

He woke himself as best he could at the insistent shaking at his shoulder, then rolled stiffly over and looked up at his wife through eyes that simply did not yet wish to focus in the dim glow of the Coleman lantern she carried. Not awake enough to quite know where he was—or, for that matter, when it was—he glanced at the clock on the nightstand, staring dumbly at the darkened face until he realized it was the power outage and not his eyes that refused to let him see the familiar green digits.

“What… time is it?” His voice croaked, and he knew before she answered that only a handful of hours could have passed since they had finally turned in after getting the Chevy running. They’d spent too much time listening to the AM radio, catching up on the news from the rest of the world. None of it had been very good.

“It’s after midnight. Honey, you have to get up. Jason’s here.” It was the look on her face more than her words that brought him fully awake. Something was very wrong.

“Be right there,” he said, sending her back to take care of their uninvited guests. His pants were still on the floor where he’d dropped them before crawling into bed, and he’d slept in his shirt, so getting dressed took only a few moments. His shoes were nowhere in sight and, assuming he must have left them in the living room, he padded barefoot and sock-less down the hall.

That his neighbor was in a sad state was apparent the moment he entered the kitchen. Jason’s usually perfect artificial hair was a mess, his designer clothing disheveled and mismatched. The man’s face was drawn, and there were dark circles under his eves, accentuated by the harsh shadows cast by the lantern. He gripped a coffee mug in hands that shook visibly. Brittany sat nervously in the chair to his left, her own coffee untouched in front of her, and had her arms looped tightly around her husband’s elbow although he didn’t seem to be aware that she was even there. Her eyes were red from crying.

“Jason?” Ed sat across from him and accepted the steaming mug Carol offered. “Are you all right?”

The man, seemingly on the verge of tears, stared at the table top and said nothing.

“He needs your help,” Brittany pleaded. “Please. I’m worried about him.”

The fear in her voice made it difficult to be angry “What is it, Jace?” Ed touched his arm. “What is it? What can we do?”

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, and swallowed several times before responding. “I have to get… get online.” His voice quavered badly and his eyes blinked rapidly. Was he on something? “Everything I have… Everything I am depends on it, Ed!”

“Yes, but I don’t know what I can—”

“The car!” He pounded a hand flat on the table, spilling his coffee and sending Brittany into tears. “I… I’m sorry… but I saw that you got it running. Maybe… if you drove me outside the affected area—can you make it to upstate New York, or maybe eastern Pennsylvania? The interstates are deserted.” His voice still shook, but a certain desperate excitement crept into his words that was unmistakable as his eyes widened and he began to talk faster. “I can link in if only I can get somewhere outside Connecticut!”

“With what, Jace? You just going to walk into someone’s house or office and start using their stuff? Come on, I imagine everything’s tied up for hundreds of miles outside the affected radius here in the east, with people doing their best just to help take care of us and what’s happening here. Don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a sip of coffee, hoping the nonchalant gesture would help to relax the man—not to mention his distraught wife. Why did they always come to him asking for help or advice? What did they think he knew that they didn’t?

Jason almost smiled then, his eyes darting erratically. He pointed out the open window to the neighboring houses. “Brandon! He’s got a brand new Mac 99 in his basement. It came in a week or two before the satellite blew, but he hadn’t had a chance to get it hooked in to his system yet. It’s still in the box, not even opened, in the original packing!”

Carol put her hand on his shoulder as she leaned over the table to wipe up the spilled coffee with a dish towel. “But it won’t be in any better shape than anything else, will it?”

“But it might!” He was on his feet, swaying unsteadily in a way that convinced Ed now that he had taken too much of something. “They said it yesterday on the broadcast! They’re finding a lot of stuff still in boxes that made it through OK because of the packing.”

“That’s not what they said, Jace,” Brittany put in. The tears still flowed down her cheeks, but she spoke the words clearly, precisely, as though they had already had this discussion several times before coming here. She regarded Ed, explaining, “They said that some equipment was turning up that hadn’t been affected. But it was mostly in warehouses and storage rooms with unopened boxes and crates that had been stacked several deep. A few,” she emphasized, “in warehouses packed with hundreds.”

Jason looked around the room, desperately searching each face for signs of some kind of support. “But it’s a shot!”

“All right, then,” Ed considered. “Assuming Brandon’s new computer is one of the lucky ones, and assuming the car has enough gas to make it far enough to reach an unaffected area, can you get it on-line? What exactly do you need?”

“I just need a telephone, and a power source.” Jason’s eyes brightened hopefully, and he leaned forward on the table next to his wife. For the first time since entering the kitchen, the man looked a bit less frantic, maybe even a little more controlled. “I can’t go virtual, not without going through my own node, but I have enough account contacts to establish a basic set-up node in the first functional motel room we can find.” He stopped, almost holding his breath as he waited for Ed’s answer. “I’ll pay you. Enough to get your old car fixed up any way you like.”

Ed waved his hand to dismiss the offer. The last thing he wanted was Jason’s money. But as he considered his request he glanced at Carol and, seeing the look of compassion in her eyes for their despondent neighbor, he actually found himself feeling a bit sorry for the disagreeable man. Would it be so awful to do a good thing for a bad neighbor? That was exactly the kind of attitude, after all, that he found lacking in people like Jason and his ilk. Besides, having complained about it for years, he couldn’t very well act the same way, now could he?

He let out a long, slow sigh. “Brandon’s agreed to give you the computer?”

Apparently thinking that Ed was softening, a grin appeared on Jason’s face. “Of course he’ll agree! He wants back on-line, too, but he doesn’t have the accounts to set up an out-of-state node. Once I take care of Kishuri Blankenberg, he can use my node to conduct any business he wants. He couldn’t refuse.”

Five minutes later, standing on Brandon and Heather’s front lawn, their neighbor was anything but agreeable in matters regarding his computer. The discussion—if you could truly call it that—was heated from the beginning when Brandon had refused to let Jason inside. From the tone of the argument, it was clear that Jason had not bothered to run his idea past Brandon before he came begging for the use of the Chevy in the dark of night.

“I don’t believe you!” Jason was screaming through the screen door. “I extend you an opportunity to get back on-line, I even offer you the use of my personal node, and you’re saying no?”

“Look, Jace. I appreciate the offer, I really do.” The man was trying to be nice, but was clearly losing patience. “But I just don’t need back on as desperately as you do. I can afford to wait a few weeks till they get things restored around here. And when they do, I’m going to need a working system. My old system is just as fried as yours, and can you imagine what the chances are going to be of anything else being available? I’m sorry, but I’m not even taking the new one out of the box till the phones and power are back. I just won’t risk it.”

Jason grabbed the handle of the screen door and rattled it violently, trying to get inside. “Damnit Brandon! I’ve got to have it!” Brandon stood back, startled by the man’s sudden burst of anger.

“Jace, please…” Brittany, more unnerved and upset than ever at what her husband was going through, tugged at his jacket sleeve. “Let’s just go home. Let’s leave them alone.”

“Goddamnit! Why don’t you leave me alone!” He jerked his arm free of her grasp and pushed her forcefully, sending her stumbling backward to land heavily on the walkway.

“Jason! That’s enough!” Ed was halfway to the front steps when Jason fumbled in his jacket and pulled a dark object out of his belt. In the hard light of the lantern, Ed couldn’t identify the thing at first. The he realized what it was: a gun.

“No,” Jason said. He leveled the weapon in Brandon’s direction. Jason was more agitated than ever, but the gun—a lightweight plastic Glock 9mm—was steady and unmoving. When he spoke, his voice was just as steady. “I want the computer. I need it. I’m getting it.” Apparently confident that he was now in control, he ignored the others. He turned back to the front door where both Brandon and Heather stood in frozen shock. He reached for the door, rattling the handle again. “I’m taking the Mac, Brandon. Let me in.”

Neither man moved.

“Let me in!” He punched at the lower screen panel, tearing it loose, and reached in to undo the lock on the handle, then jerked the door itself open so hard that it slammed back against the front of the house.

“Jason, no!” The loud crash of the breaking screen door finally seemed to snap Brandon from his trance. He put his hand out in a weak attempt to stop the man from entering his house. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Move!”

The moment Jason shouted, it seemed to make everything that happened next flow together as a single action. He swung the gun around menacingly, moving forward. Brandon jumped back, trying to slam the heavy main door.

Jason tried to push his way in, but lost his balance. The Glock discharged into the edge of the door, sending a burst of wooden splinters flying everywhere.

Heather screamed once, then again. Brandon was thrown forcibly backward by the bullet’s impact and fell, disappearing inside. Carol cried out and started toward the door, but Ed put his arm out to stop her before she could get any closer. Brittany, still on the sidewalk and unable to take any more, turned to Ed with such a confused look on her face that he wondered if she even comprehended what had happened.

And then, for a brief instant, there was no sound, and no one moved, and no one did anything, and Jason just stood there^and stared dumbly at the man lying in the entranceway. Heather leaned over him amid the pieces of the shattered door. She looked up, mouth open, eyes wide at the man standing above her, the gun now hanging limply at his side.

“Oh, God. Oh, God!” Heather was suddenly frantic. Her voice gasped fitfully as she wiped her hands over and over again at the blood oozing from the upper right side of Brandon’s chest, as though her desperate actions could somehow make the spreading stain go away. “Brandon, please, get up. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Jason looked stupidly at the gun in his hand, then at his neighbor lying in the pool of blood at his feet—the pool of blood that he had caused. Then back at the gun as though he couldn’t bring himself to connect the two. He stammered uselessly. Whatever he said became immediately drowned out by the distraught woman. He held the gun so loosely and offered so little protest when Ed took it from him, that it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped the weapon on the porch.

While Carol gently pulled Heather away from her husband, Ed knelt down at the man’s side, ignoring the blood soaking into the knees of his pants. “He’s alive,” he said over his shoulder. “Carol, go get C.D.”

He felt light-headed for a moment, then the feeling passed. Slowly and deliberately, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the tin of pills, and fished one out, chewing it carefully as if it were the most important thing in the world. He looked up to see Carol, her face frozen with concern.

“I’m all right,” he said. “Hurry up and get C.D., and tell him to meet me in the garage.” As she hurried across the lawn he saw that the Powells and some of the other neighbors had gathered out front.

“Give me a hand here!”

The Powells helped Ed place Brandon onto a blue tarp they pulled out of the backyard where it had covered the kids’ bicycles. Ed rushed home and took his time starting up the Chevy. He didn’t want to flood it and he didn’t want to wear down the fragile battery, and he was sure he was going to do both. By the time he pulled into Brandon’s driveway, C.D. was already there.

The Powells helped them lift the tarp and place Brandon in the back of the station wagon. C.D. was hard at work. He had stripped Brandon’s shirt from him and was jamming a towel against the wound.

“Get his feet up,” he said as the Powells drew back from the tailgate. “He’s in shock.”

They shoved a plastic milk crate full of junk under Brandon’s heels, then closed the gate. Ed looked around and saw Carol holding Heather in a bear hug. Neither woman moved. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want both of them up front with him, but he sure as hell didn’t want Heather in the back seat where she could see what C.D. was doing to her husband.

Then Heather broke loose and rushed to the car. Ed reached over and opened the passenger door to let them in. Heather sobbed softly but uncontrollably, her head buried in Carol’s shoulder.

“I heard the shot,” C.D. said once they were underway. “Damn near broke my neck jumping out of bed. I’ve been wondering how long it would be before Jason nailed someone.”

“Put a sock in it, will you, C.D.?” Carol snapped at him without turning.

A brief pause, then, “Sorry.” He sounded like he meant it.

Ed turned his attention to the road in front of them. Maneuvering around all the derelict cars was harder than he thought it would be. The old car was nothing like he remembered—and nothing like the tight little electric things he was used to driving. The steering wheel felt loose and sluggish, and the Chevy heaved like a boat being pushed around in a stiff wind.

He navigated his way through the narrow lanes of Dutch Elm Acres as slowly as he could and as quickly as he could, not once letting the knowledge slip from his mind that it would take only one mistake—a corner taken too fast, a turn misjudged, or a slight oversteering on his part—to bring them to a halt and end Brandon’s life right there. He cursed the developers who had laid out the roads in the subdivision. What had once seemed cozy and efficient now seemed as tight as a noose.

Things didn’t get any better once they got out on the highway and headed toward town. There weren’t any streetlights, and the road disappeared into a darkness that lay thick across the land. The sky was overcast without moon or stars to hint at what lay beyond the narrow spread of the headlights.

“Where are we going?” C.D. asked.

“You tell me,” Ed said. “The mailman who came through on Tuesday said the National Guard was set up in Middletown. Do you suppose there’s anyone who can help us here in Colchester, or do we have to go all the way up there?”

“Middletown?” Carol growled. “That’s half an hour away.”

“Yeah, I know,” C.D. said, “but we could spend an hour or more looking for help in Colchester.”

“Middletown it is,” Ed said, easing out onto the highway and turning left.

They didn’t run into trouble until they passed through the center of town. Disabled vehicles filled the roads. The Chinese bomb had gone off in the middle of the day, when traffic was fairly heavy. A line of cars still sat at the dead traffic light at Route 16. At some places the cars on opposite sides of the road were so close together that Ed had to slow down and actually pass them on the narrow shoulder.

His hands were shaking and his legs ached from the tight control he tried to keep over the old Chevy. A big part of him wanted to pull over and take another heart pill, but not because he needed to. He just wanted to take something that would make him feel safe and secure.

God, he hated being old. It was only in moments like this that he really felt it. His eyes had trouble focusing and his mouth was as dry as the desert.

The worst moment came on the far side of town as they headed down the long hill towards Marlborough. The Chevy was picking up speed as it rolled along—more than he wanted—and he tried to brake, but the momentum was more than he was used to. Hard steel and rubber, instead of aluminum and plastic, made a big difference.

They came around a curve at the foot of the hill and saw the accident scene at the last minute. A big delivery truck had collided with a smaller commuter car, one of those tiny threewheeled things that ran about forty miles on a charge and could be stored in a broom closet. As they rushed towards it, Ed realized it must have been there since the lights went out.

There was barely enough time to swerve around it. The car left the road and swung wildly through the soft dirt beyond the shoulder. They bounced and jolted and shook. Ed felt the steering wheel come to life in his hands, trying to tear itself loose, and his heart began to sink—not a clinical symptom, but an emotional one. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tell Brandon he was sorry about getting him killed. He wanted to go home.

Then he drew a deep breath, tightened his grip on the wheel, and fought back. He gave the engine more gas, spinning the wheels noisily in the sand and loose gravel behind him. The Chevy fishtailed slightly, then swung obediently back toward the road.

Carol let out a short yelp, long after it was necessary. C.D. moaned theatrically in the back. Heather sobbed louder. Ed felt suddenly crowded in his pride and joy of an antique car, but the closeness gave him renewed strength. At least with the two women in the front seat, he wasn’t sliding around all over the place.

They regained the highway and the Chevy drew back into line, losing the will to resist.

“The next time you’re going to do that, would you mind giving me some kind of warning?” C.D. said.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Ed raised an eyebrow at C.D. in the rearview mirror. “But those sudden surprises keep things more interesting, don’t you think?”

“No need to evac him into Hartford or one of the larger centers,” the National Guard medic said as he escorted them through the small crowd to their car. The Sun had just cleared the hills on the other side of the Connecticut River, and cast long shadows ahead of them as they walked.

The man was older than most of the other medical personnel they had talked to here—probably only a few years younger than he was, in fact—and looked extremely uncomfortable and out of place in the fresh uniform he wore. Clearly a civilian, it occurred to Ed that he wore the uniform as much as a badge of authority as anything else, and judging from the pandemonium he and C.D. had found at the small clinic-turned-field hospital, he could easily see the need. People milled about everywhere among a sea of dull green government vehicles, temporary shelters and power generators that had turned the small-town clinic into a virtual oasis of modem services. From what they had seen, most of the injuries were minor, and most had been caused inadvertently by people simply trying to cope with the situation: cuts and scrapes, some broken bones caused by falls, and a lot of bums from those trying to cook with real fire for the first time in years. Most of these were being cared for outside while the precious space inside the facility was being held for other injuries, more serious in nature, that were becoming more common as patience and resources wore thin. Like Brandon. Arguments, fist fights and, inevitably, more shooting incidents were keeping the medical personnel here busier with each passing day.

“I want to keep him here till… make it next Thursday just to be on the safe side,” the doctor was saying as he walked, scanning the readout of a handheld medical notepad. He was exhausted and rubbed repeatedly at his eyes as he spoke, but seemed more burdened by the nature of his more recent cases than the caseload itself. “The bullet smashed part of his upper rib cage and did a good bit of tissue damage. He lost a lot of blood, too, but it could have been a lot worse if the door hadn’t slowed the bullet down some before it hit him. He’ll be OK, but he was lucky, and luck’s something we haven’t seen much around here. He’s the fourth gunshot victim I’ve done since the weekend.”

“And his wife?” Ed asked.

“She’s fine. And I’ve already arranged a place for her to stay in town.”

Ed shook his head wistfully. “If this is what it’s like at small facilities like this one, I can’t imagine what’s happening in Hartford or Bridgeport.”

“Bridgeport?” C.D. snorted, picking up his friend’s train of thought. “How about New York? Or Boston? Geez, can you imagine—”

“I’d rather not.” Something in the sound of the doctor’s voice told him the man was glad to be in Middletown, and not one of the major metro areas.

“Well, I’m just glad we got him here in time to do something.” An armed guardsman stood at the back of the Chevy, and Ed could see that the gasoline and supplies the National Guard commander had promised him earlier had already been loaded inside. Bright orange stickers—temporary road use permits—had been affixed to the windshield and tailgate window. Carol was sound asleep, curled up on the back seat. He tossed the ball of blood-soaked blankets he carried into the back before closing the tailgate as quietly as he could to avoid waking her.

The doctor stood staring at the car. “This is yours? This is what you brought him here in? I said a moment ago that your friend was lucky, but…” He paused, running a hand appreciatively along one of the polished fenders. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Ronson, take good care of this beautiful machine. You may need it.”

“How’s that?”

“Well,” he said, not taking his eyes off the car, “we’ve been able to follow things pretty well, thanks to everything the Guard has set up for us here. Word out of Washington is that the Chinese nuke that went off might not have been an accident.”

“Say what?” C.D. was incredulous. “They think it was terrorists? I knew it. Hey, what did I tell you, Eddie?”

“No.” The doctor shook his head. “Not unless there’s such a thing as economic terrorism. They seem to think that the way it happened—altitude, the timing of the orbital path, the blast coming at a time with the least amount of air traffic and such—was too coincidental to be random.” He shrugged. “More than a few are starting to say it was done deliberately in an effort to wreck our economy.”

“That’s a bunch of crap.”

“Why not?” Ed countered sourly. “Makes perfect sense to me.” He opened the front door of the wagon, then extended his hand. “Thanks for all you’ve done, Doctor. And thank your commander again, too, for the stickers and provisions. Everyone in the neighborhood will be glad to get the supplies.”

The sign read Hammonasset Beach State Park—5 Miles.

The drive from his son’s clinic in Old Saybrook, like the trip down from Colchester, had been uneventful. There were more derelict vehicles here on I-95 than there had been driving down Route 11, but most had been allowed to coast onto the wide shoulders when the EMP had killed their power systems. They had kept their speed low—partly because of the numerous abandoned vehicles, but mostly because they simply were in no hurry—but even at that the only vehicles passing them had been National Guard trucks and transports, or cars belonging to state or local police. One of the state cops had stopped them, but only to make sure they were all right and not on an emergency run of some type. The man had been quite friendly, and even took a few extra moments to retrieve a chocolate bar from his cruiser and give it to the kids before heading back on his way south.

As Ed and Carol had suspected, Paul and Joanie had their hands full at the clinic in Old Saybrook and were only too glad to let the kids spend the day with them. The two children, likewise, were thrilled with the idea of going to the beach, and giggled and sang happily in the back seat with their Grandma.

When they had risen that day to a hot breakfast in the National Guard mess tent, Ed had set down his coffee, looked C.D. in the eye, and said: “I’m taking your advice about the beach. As soon as we get back home, the three of us are going to pack blankets and food and charcoal and some icy wieners from your freezer and anything else we need into that car, then after a quick stop in Old Saybrook to say ‘hi’ to Paul and Joanie, we take the kids and head straight down 1-95. And we’re not stopping until we get to Hammonasset.”

He wiped the back of a hand over his eyes. “God, C.D., they’re getting big. Won’t be long before they won’t want to spend time with Grandma and Grandpap anymore.” He paused again, a broad grin spreading across his face. “And then I’m going to chase seagulls up and down the beach all day long with them, that’s what I’m going to do. To hell with Jason and Brandon… and to hell with the Chinese and their stupid satellite, too, for that matter.”

“I’m with you, buddy,” C.D. said. “Gunshots make me nervous. Besides, I’m not sure how I feel about going home just yet.”

“It’s not just that, C.D. It’s a bunch of things. I’m beginning to get used to the peace and quiet. And if I’m going to be living out of a campsite, I might as well enjoy it. You were right the other night. It’s been too long since we got out and got surprised.”

“That’s what I was telling you. Just because we’re a couple of old freaks doesn’t mean we can’t hit the road again. School’s out forever.”

“There’s something about being a Boomer—even a Gerry Boomer like you and me—that means you have to go out once in a while and get your head together. After that, who knows what we’ll do. Maybe when they put things back together again, we’ll see if we can make sure they do it right.”

And now, with the afternoon Sun shining down on them, they were carrying out Ed’s plan. With Carol enraptured in play with the children, Ed and C.D. had spent most of the trip just listening to them and answering their unending eager questions about everything from satellites to seashells, and had spoken little to each other except to comment on the beauty of the day or something that caught their attention as they drove.

At one point, however, when Carol and the kids seemed to be ignoring them as they played, C.D. turned and asked bluntly, his voice low, “You weren’t serious, were you? What you said to the doctor earlier, I mean. You don’t really buy this crap about the nuke being set off deliberately, do you?”

“Why the hell not? I’m not the least bit surprised to learn that someone on the other side of the world might be so wrapped up in his little corporate higher-faster-better mentality that they’d pull something like this. It’s just like Jason and his Glock, except that a whole bunch of their Jasons got together and wanted to do something bigger. Why should we be so conceited as to think that we’re the only country in the world that let a whole generation of Jasons and Brandons take over?” He chuckled softly, sadly at the thought. “You know, I’ll bet there’s some guy our age right now sitting over in Japan, or Korea, or somewhere in the E.C.—whatever the hell country it was that caused all this—and he’s sitting there shaking his head over the craziness of what their version of the younger generation considers normal.”

C.D. looked at him, then pointed into the back seat where Carol was now reading an ancient, frayed copy of “Curious George” to the kids. “But they didn’t all turn out bad,” he said. “Paul and Joanie turned out fine. And they did just fine with these two.”

“Thanks.” Ed reached over and patted his friend warmly on the shoulder, and let out a long sigh. “You know, we don’t have a future, but they do.” He nodded toward the back of the car. “And I hope it’s something more than getting plugged into a virtual video reality something or other where all you do is make virtual money for virtual corporations. Maybe now they won’t. Maybe after all this, maybe some of the real things will become important to them again.”

“In other words: Maybe the Chinese, or whoever, did us—did them—a big favor.”

“Yeah.” A glint of reflected sunlight from the rearview mirror caught his eye, and as he stared into the mirror, he realized that there were several vehicles coming up in the distance. “Company coming,” he said, pointing to the mirror. “Probably another National Guard convoy running supplies to New Haven.”

C.D. turned around in the seat and looked out the back window “Yeah, or returning empty.”

Ed let the Chevy coast until his speed was low enough to pull over and allow the convoy to safely pass. C.D. played with the AM radio, trying to fine-tune a classic rock station he had managed to pick up out of Cleveland.

But as the traffic drew nearer it became clear that they weren’t National Guard, or any other official vehicles for that matter, but rather a scattered line of older cars.

Fords and Chevrolets, big Chryslers with tail fins and Buicks with seemingly more chrome than glass, even a pair of noisy VW Beedes.

At the wheel of each was someone from Ed, Carol and C.D.’s generation. Baby Boomer survivors of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s; all, like the three of them, refusing to get old, refusing to join the plugged-in generation that followed.

And in each car were the children, waving gleefully at them as they passed. All of them joyous and excited for that rarest of combinations: no school, their parents engrossed in Important Adult Stuff, and, most important of all, an offer from their grandparents to spirit them away for a delightful day of fun and being spoiled.

C.D. looked up with a grin at the sight just as the radio shook with the opening bars of an old song that sent a chill up Ed’s spine: “Rock and Roll Never Forgets.”

Ed waited a moment for an opening in the line of cars, then he put the wagon into gear, pulled onto the highway, and, with the chords and chorus echoing from the radio, joined the great parade down to the beach.