Analog SFF, March 2010 Read online

Sleep came hard.

  * * * *

  Adrian rose shortly after sunrise, cold, hungry, thirsty, and far from rested. His eyes on the sun with its promise of future warmth, he ran in place, trying to generate some heat. Yes, the sun would soon enough fill one of his needs, but as to the others ... He'd have to try flagging down a northbound vehicle for a lift without delay. His best shot would be to try flagging trucks with Canadian license plates.

  He walked to the edge of the median and soon saw that not only was flagging down a Canadian truck impossible, but there was no way he'd be able to flag down anyone. He was next to the high-speed lane, and with the continuous heavy traffic, no vehicle could as much as slow down. He looked across to the slow lane. It was better, but not much better.

  As he stared into the traffic, the realization slowly grew on him that it was hopeless—all of it. He'd never get across those four lanes. The whole idea of fleeing back to Canada was a silly dream. He clenched his fists. There was nothing else to do but give himself up. He shuddered at the thought of wearing neon orange again. I can't go back.

  He gazed across the roadway. Even if he really did want to surrender, he'd have to cross to the other side and then hunt around for a cop.

  He chose to continue walking north. He knew what was in the other direction—nothing. And the bus certainly would have been removed by now. He started walking, trying to think of something to do.

  A road sign caught his eye: “Unlawful to Pick Up or Discharge Hitchhikers.” He sighed and kept walking. Giving himself up was the only thing he could do.

  Maybe he'd encounter a car with a flat tire or something. He hadn't seen one all the previous day, but maybe he'd get lucky. And maybe it'll be a Canadian going home. He shook his head. Stop dreaming.

  He walked at the edge of the road, looking for a patrolling police car. He's seen none so far, but he couldn't conceive of a major highway without police cars—even if there were automatic cameras. Maybe, he'd just been unlucky so far. He thought about emergency telephones. But he couldn't remember seeing one. Canadian highways had them at regular intervals—but now that he thought about it, it seemed superfluous; everyone had a cell phone in his pocket these days. His hand automatically moved to where a pants pocket should be. But of course, he didn't have a cell phone—or a pocket.

  As he walked, he grew increasingly hungry and, with his black plastic tunic absorbing the head of the sun, thirsty. Soon, thirst predominated. As the sun neared the zenith, he could think of nothing but water. He lowered his eyes to the ground—and saw the litter, and saw it in a new light. Maybe he could find some food among all the wrappers and such. And more importantly, water.

  Now, he actively sought out litter, going from one side of the median to the other at the sight of white cups against the green. On his third try, he picked up a cup, pulled off its lid still holding a straw, and found clear liquid within—melted ice, probably. Again, he worried about disease, but only briefly; disease was abstract whereas dying of thirst wasn't. He downed the liquid—delicious with a slight hint of cola flavor. Soon, he found more liquid-bearing cups, enough to slake his thirst. His lips stretched into a tight smile.

  Those littering drivers he'd formerly held in such contempt might well have saved his life.

  His hunger grew steadily more intense, and he began to seek out food wrappers as well as drink cups. He found a few, but they held no scraps of food. Many of the wrappers had little bits of paper torn out—nibble marks. With a shiver, Adrian realized he was competing with the rats for food.

  But he had to get food. He decided he'd just have to walk across the road. Cars will either stop or they won't. He stepped onto the road but then darted back. He couldn't bring himself to risk death that way.

  Exhausted, starved, and thirsty again, he trudged onward, hoping to encounter a miracle. And if he didn't, maybe tomorrow, Saturday, traffic would be lighter and he'd be able to cross.

  A flash of orange in the distance caught his attention. He froze with recognition. His jumpsuit soccer ball lay at the edge of the median. Still a round orb, but dirty. He couldn't help but think it was an omen—that the police were pursuing him. He retrieved the ball, but couldn't bear the idea of deconstructing it and putting on the jumpsuit. After dark, he would. The hated garment of incarceration would provide warmth.

  * * * *

  Dan was out sick with a strep throat and Philip had been grounded for talking back to his mom, so that left only three members of the Screaming Beavers in attendance at the patrol meeting. Still, it was hard for Kiefer Bernhardt, the patrol leader, to deliver the news that his dad had been suddenly called away for an emergency meeting in Albany and wouldn't be able to take them on their weekend patrol campout. Kiefer held onto a map as one might a security blanket.

  "What?” Alex shouted, the noise reverberating off the basement walls of the rec room. “That stinks!"

  "But we've already bought our food and packed and everything,” Paul said in a pleading voice.

  "Yeah, I know” Kiefer smoothed out the map on the ping-pong table. “But we can still go on a day-long hike tomorrow."

  "It's not the same,” said Paul.

  Kiefer pressed on. “My brother's home from college this weekend. He said he'd drive us out in the morning and pick us up sometime after we've finished dinner."

  Paul wrinkled his nose.

  "Wait a minute,” said Alex. “You mean there'll be no adults with us?"

  "Yeah."

  "This could be fun, then,” said Alex.

  "Yeah,” Kiefer said with enthusiasm, happy that his patrol wasn't angry with him any more. “But we can't go to Shendegen Hollow. Jay's car doesn't have four-wheel drive."

  "Where'll we go then?” said Paul.

  "Anywhere.” Kiefer ran his hand over the map. “Well, anywhere we can drive to in an hour. As long as it's safe."

  "What do you mean, safe?” asked Alex in a suspicious voice.

  "I don't know,” said Kiefer. “Jay said it. I think he means some place public where a pervert or something won't come and try to molest us."

  Alex and Paul laughed.

  Kiefer indicated the map. “Come on, guys. Let's figure out where we're going."

  Paul leaned in over the map and pointed to a road that had been highlighted with a red marker. “What's this?"

  "Route 81X,” Kiefer said with a touch of pride. “My dad's the chief landscape architect for the whole road."

  "Landscape architect?” Alex giggled. “You mean he designs trees?"

  "Well, actually, he does. Treez with a ‘z.’”

  Again, Paul wrinkled his nose. “You mean all the trees on that road's median are phony?"

  "They're real. Dad says 81X is probably the last highway that'll have real nature. After that it'll be all Neoturf and stuff from Treezcorp.” Kiefer touched the tip of his forefinger to the red line at Whitney Point, the closest point to home. “The median's great. Lots of clumps of trees, bushes, and growth-limited grass so it never needs mowing."

  "Wish my yard had that,” said Alex.

  "Dad says it's a thin island of nature.” Kiefer moved his finger along the line. “It goes clear up to Canada."

  "Then...” Paul hesitated. “Then why don't we take our day hike on the 81X median?"

  Alex and Kiefer looked at him. Then Kiefer, realizing Paul was serious, laughed. “Come on!"

  "Why not?” said Paul. “Your brother could let us off, and we could hike as far as we want, and it would still be easy for him to find us and pick us up after dinner."

  Alex glanced at Kiefer. “You know, it's not a bad idea.” He laughed. “And on a median strip, you wouldn't get us lost like last time."

  "What? I never got you—"

  "Maybe it's not a good idea,” said Paul, distantly. “If there was a motorcycle gang or something coming up the median, we'd be toast."

  "Oh, come on,” said Alex. “81X is perfectly safe. Zillions of people'll be able to see us all the time."

&nb
sp; "But what if there's an escaped leopard loose on the median?"

  "Paul!” Alex threw a glance at the ceiling, and then laughed.

  "Jeez!” Kiefer said in frustration. “Anyway, it wasn't a leopard. It was a bear."

  "What?” said Alex, swiveling to face Kiefer.

  "Happened before you moved here. Some gypsy or something. His van broke down and his bear got loose."

  "Come on!"

  "Scout's honor,” swore Kiefer. “He was afraid of getting in trouble, so he set traps for the bear."

  "It's true,” said Paul. “And the bear wandered into the road, and a truck hit it. Killed it.” Paul whispered as if he were telling a ghost story. “And the gypsy died a few months later of a very mysterious disease."

  "Wow!” said Alex.

  "Okay, okay,” said Kiefer. “That was a long time ago. I like the median idea. Let's just do it."

  "But zillions of people,” said Paul. “What about going to the bathroom? I'd like to go without it being show time."

  "Yeah,” said Kiefer.

  "Hey!” said Alex after a few seconds where no one spoke. “My dad has an ice-fishing tent. There's a big round hole in the bottom of it. I'll, um ... borrow it.” From his advantage of one year of age and eight inches of height, Alex glowered down at Paul. “Satisfied?"

  "I guess."

  "Good.” Kiefer folded up the map. “A wild campout. No video games, no cell phones."

  "Wild?” Alex barked a laugh. “On a highway median?"

  "Well, other than that. And an ecological campout. Everything packed in and out."

  "Except what's under the ice-fishing tent,” said Alex.

  Paul giggled.

  "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock. Here,” said Kiefer, conscious of acting the part of patrol leader. "I'll bring a cell phone so I can call Jay to pick us up. ‘Kay?"

  "Yeah."

  "Fine."

  * * * *

  Robert Bernhardt pulled his car into the lot at the New York Center for Disease Control. He had no idea why he, a landscape architect, had been called to a meeting of epidemiologists, and he was miffed that he'd not been able to find out why. And on a Saturday morning, yet.

  He got off the elevator at the twenty-third floor, and as he walked into the posh conference room, he promised himself that he'd make it up to Kiefer—and to Kiefer's Scout patrol.

  He gazed out the window, down at a portion of Interstate 787. Ugly as sin! The median's vegetation seemed nothing but weeds. Probably ragweed. As he watched, a low ground fog began to drift in over the road. Another manifestation of the strange weather of late. His lips stretched into a thin smile; the fog did make the median look less ugly.

  At the sound of a door opening at the far end of the room, Robert turned and saw two men come in, paper coffee cups in hand.

  One of them stepped briskly forward and extended his free hand. “Ah, Dr. Bernhardt. Good of you to come.” He gave a hint of a bow. “I'm Zoltan Latzko.” Nodding toward the door, he added, “Coffee?"

  "No, thank you.” Robert smiled. “And it's Mr. Bernhardt."

  "Ah."

  They exchanged introductions: Zoltan Latzko was an epidemiologist with the National Center for Infectious Diseases, and the other man, Dwayne Bates, a heavy-set individual with what looked like a permanent scowl, was the Assistant Director of the New York State Emergency Management Office.

  "I rather imagine, Mr. Bernhardt—” said Zoltan while indicating that they should all sit, “—that you've heard of the Route 80 Effect?"

  "You mean that the ecologies north and south of 80 are different because animals can't cross the road?"

  "Just a slight difference,” said Zoltan. “Since animals can still cross at intersections, the difference is only equivalent to a hundred miles or so.” He raised a hand as if flourishing an imaginary piece of chalk. “And not merely Route 80. We have a grid of mini ecologies delineated by the interstate highway system.” He caught Robert's eyes with an intent stare. “But your Route 81X median has a sharply different ecology. Dangerously different, perhaps."

  "Dangerously different?” Robert canted his head. “Surely, you don't mean the small cats, do you?"

  While Dwayne seemed almost angry, Zoltan appeared surprised. “Oh, you know about the cats, do you?"

  "My grounds foreman's mentioned them,” said Robert. “They're rare. Cute little fuzzballs, he called them."

  "Cute?” Dwayne said almost at a bellow. “They carry a serious disease."

  "We don't know that for sure,” said Zoltan in an annoyed voice. He turned to Robert. “We've been seeking the vector for a condition that's affected a significant number of inmates in the New York prison population. They have some sort of immune deficiency. And yes, it could be serious."

  "An immune deficiency?” said Robert, feeling a response was expected.

  "No. Not what you think,” said Zoltan. “A bug of some sort. Unknown to us. The symptoms are tiredness and passivity, listlessness and a diminishing of the will, and, we think, an increased susceptibility to other diseases."

  "That's not exactly a bad thing with prisoners,” said Dwayne, appearing almost jovial after his previous outburst. “I mean the passivity and tiredness."

  "It sounds like mono,” said Robert. “Mononucleosis."

  "Yes. But it does not go away.” Zoltan exchanged a glance with Dwayne before continuing. “All right. This is confidential information.” He paused. “It seems that if a person with the virus then contracts one of a number of other viral infections—death could possibly occur."

  "Could possibly occur?” Dwayne sputtered. “This has all the signs of a possible pandemic. It needs drastic actions—it could be a new AIDS."

  "Come, now,” said Zoltan dismissively. “That's a great overstatement."

  Dwayne's face reddened and Robert tried to calm the situation with a question. “Where did the bug come from?"

  "We didn't know until a few days ago.” Dwayne swiveled away from Zoltan. “There was an accident with a Department of Corrections bus carrying inmates. Many of them had been doing litter pick up on Route 81X for months. They were given routine medical checkups—automated blood analysis and that sort of thing—and many of them had the virus."

  "The longer an inmate had been assigned to the 81X litter collection,” said Zoltan, “the more of the virus he had.” He smiled as Sherlock Holmes might have after solving a case. “So we're reasonably confident they contracted it on the 81X median. And the cats seem to be the likely carriers."

  "That's crazy,” Robert blurted without thinking. “How could it have developed in the tiny confines of the median?"

  "Not so tiny,” said Zoltan. “Not wide, surely, but very long. And in any case, we've just gotten a road-kill cat. It's being analyzed now."

  "We think the virus came from an escaped Eurasian sun bear,” said Dwayne in a flat voice. “And then it mutated.” He sighed. “Global warming seems to encourage new strains of diseases. We can't take chances with them."

  "An escaped bear?” Robert couldn't help the incredulity in his voice.

  "It's a long story.” Dwayne stared down at his coffee cup, as if he were addressing it and not Robert. “We've decided to sterilize the median—"

  "You've decided!” said Zoltan.

  Dwayne ignored the interruption. “We'll have to close the highway and send choppers over to sterilize everything on the median—from Binghamton to the Canadian border."

  "That's wrong-headed,” said Zoltan with a scowl. “We can't exterminate an entire ecological system. It's monstrous. An isolated, narrow world."

  "We have to,” said Dwayne. “We'll blanket the area with announcements, then close the highway and then just do it."

  "That world isn't the only thing that's narrow,” said Zoltan under his breath.

  Dwayne slapped a hand to the conference table, shaking the coffee cups. “Look. We've been lucky so far. The prison population is automatically isolated. No physical contact with non-prisoners
. Even the doctors treating them wear surgical gloves. Which is good because Zoltan here says the virus could possibly be spread by physical contact."

  Zoltan threw himself back in his chair. “Could possibly!"

  Dwayne glowered at the epidemiologist. “I'm not going to trust the safety of New Yorkers to luck."

  Zoltan glowered back.

  Robert, again attempting to lower the heat, asked, “What do I have to do with all this?"

  "We need to know how deep the turf cover is,” said Dwayne calmly. “And how stable is it? Could it be excavated without sending dust into the air?"

  "Very stable. The turf depth is less than six inches, except under the trees where there's a four-foot pit. Under that, it's 337-asphalt.” Robert narrowed his eyes. “Why?"

  "We want the median replaced with Neoturf and Treez as fast as possible,” said Dwayne. “Can your company handle it?"

  Robert sucked in a breath. This would be a very lucrative contract. “It'll be expensive."

  "It's been in the works for some time,” said Dwayne. “Artificial is cheaper and easier to maintain, and biologically cleaner.” He pursed his lips. “But now it's an emergency. We don't need to send it to bid."

  Robert considered the logistics. “Unfortunately the EPA now considers the asphalt binder we used a mutagen. This will require some care. But I think—"

  Zoltan's cell phone rang. He extracted it, stared at the caller ID for a moment, then excused himself and hurried to a corner of the conference room where he held a whispered conversation. Robert and Dwayne watched in silence.

  After less than a minute, Zoltan returned to the table. “They've tested the cat,” he said. “Not a trace of the virus.” He sat heavily. “I expected otherwise. Cats groom themselves and each other. I'd have thought we'd see the virus.” He turned suddenly to Robert. “Is there another population of mammals on the strip?"

  Robert shook his head. “Not that I know of."

  "Hmm.” Zoltan stroked his chin. “Probably rats. There are always rats.” He pounded a fist softly on the table. “Yes,” he said, as if to himself. “The cats must have acquired an immunity to the disease. Probably the virus is carried by rats.” He turned to Dwayne. “You can't sterilize the median now."