Analog SFF, March 2010 Read online

  "What?"

  "We need time to study this. A cat bite or scratch could be an inoculation against the disease."

  "Pure speculation—since we know birds don't carry the virus either.” Dwayne drew a hand across his forehead. “And unfortunately, we don't have the time."

  "Why not?” Zoltan demanded.

  Dwayne's cell phone rang. Seemingly by reflex, he pulled it out and flipped it open.

  "Bates,” he said.

  "What?” Dwayne leaned forward in his chair. “Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?"

  "Any sign of him?"

  "Do? What the hell can we do?” Dwayne flipped his phone closed.

  "What is it?” said Zoltan.

  "There's an inmate missing.” Dwayne shoved the phone back in his pocket. “From the bus. A kid. It looks like he ran away in the confusion of the accident."

  "And you just found this out now?"

  "The paperwork was lost in the explosion,” said Dwayne in a flat voice. “And the guards were hospitalized.” He sighed. “We have a sweep out for the kid. In his prison jumpsuit, he should be easy to spot."

  "He hasn't been so far,” said Zoltan.

  "We haven't been looking for him until now.” Dwayne shook his head, slowly. “None of the highway surveillance cameras have picked him up. He's probably still hiding out on the median strip."

  "That's impossible,” said Zoltan. “It's been days. He can't still be on the median."

  "Wait a minute,” said Robert, aghast. “He might be on the median. And if he is, then what? Is he going to be ... sterilized along with the trees?"

  "I hope he is on the median,” said Dwayne.

  "What? The kid's a criminal. So sterilize him. Is that it?"

  "If he's on the median, we'll apprehend him."

  "How?” Zoltan asked.

  "First,” said Dwayne, in flat voice, “the traffic will be diverted off the road. Then choppers with narrow-focus sound warnings will fly along the median. A few minutes later, another chopper, flying low, will visually search for possible stalled cars on the median and other irregularities. And in his orange prison jumpsuit, the kid will stand out like a school bus on a golf course."

  "Maybe.” Robert pointed out the window. “But if you hadn't noticed, there's a ground fog over Route 787. Probably means 81X is none too clear either."

  Zoltan clenched a fist. “Mr. Bernhardt is right. You've got to stop this sterilization."

  "I'm sorry, Zoltan.” Dwayne put an elbow on the table and lowered his head onto a closed fist. “Homeland Security has taken it out of my hands."

  * * * *

  "Remind me why we're doing this,” said Alex as he trudged along under the weight of a heavy pack. They had just encountered yet another cluster of well-behaved trees.

  Kiefer, in the lead, weighed down by his own pack and with binoculars hanging around his neck, was happy for the excuse to stop. They'd been hiking for over an hour. He turned to Alex. “I thought it would be fun."

  From behind, Paul said, “The fog is sort of neat.” He moved forward and the three formed a small circle. “But it's like hiking in a big treadmill.” Paul had brought a walking staff from home, and he leaned on it. “Our only choice is direction and even that doesn't matter. It's all the same. Grass, trees, grass, trees. Even getting lost is more fun."

  "Yeah,” said Alex. “Borrring!” He leaned back, resting his pack against a tree. “And you had to make it a wild campout—no computers, radios, video games, cell phones except yours.” He looked off at the traffic passing like ghosts in the mist. “Yeah, wild."

  "I guess it maybe wasn't such a good idea,” said Kiefer. Then he brightened. “Hey. What if we set up for lunch now and after we eat, I'll phone my brother to pick us up here." He smiled with a thought. “We could all go to a movie together or something—a patrol movie."

  Alex chuckled. “Patrol movie. Yeah."

  "Let's set up a tent,” Paul said abruptly.

  "A tent?” Kiefer wrinkled his nose. “Why?"

  "Because,” Paul glanced at the haze-enshrouded streams of traffic, the aluminum highway display board stanchions, the Styrofoam roadside litter. “Because it would make me feel like we're real."

  Kiefer and Alex exchanged amused glances; Paul, at twelve, was a year and a half younger then the others and something of a mascot, and sometimes he said very cool things. “Yeah, fine,” said Kiefer.

  "What's for lunch?” said Alex as he unsnapped his pack and let it slip to the ground.

  Kiefer slipped out of his pack. “Spaghetti, tube steak, purple bug juice, and butterscotch toothpaste.” He extracted the patrol cook kit and camp stove from his pack frame.

  Paul set up the pop-tent. Kiefer set up the stove, filled the cook kit's saucepan with water, and threw in the spaghetti and hot dogs. Alex poured the grape drink powder and lots of sugar into the aluminum coffee pot, added water, stirred and sampled the result. Then, out of need, Alex set up the ice-fishing tent.

  Afterward, the three sat cross-legged around the camp stove, waiting for the water to boil.

  Alex looked lazily toward the northbound traffic. “Doesn't it ever stop?"

  "There's always traffic,” said Kiefer. “My brother says that since they started metered access, there's constant traffic 24/7.” He reached into his pants pocket. “And speaking of my brother, I'd better call to get him to pick us up.” He withdrew a cell phone and set it on the ground where it disappeared in the high grass. “But first, where are we?” He took up his binoculars and scanned the southbound road. “Mile marker 34.3. And let's see ... Two miles until the Whitney Point exit."

  "Hey!” Paul called out, pointing toward a motion in the nearby grass. “Look at that!"

  "Hey, neat,” said Alex. “Mice."

  Kiefer swiveled his binoculars to the grass and refocused. “No, I've had pet mice and I've had pet rats. These are definitely rats.” He lowered the binoculars. “But boy, are they ever small!"

  Paul crawled over and scooped one up in his hand. “They're friendly.” He played with the little rat, letting it run up his shirt and sit on his shoulder.

  The other boys caught their own rats and played with them while their spaghetti gelled.

  Paul happened to look away. He froze. “We're not alone,” he said at almost a whisper. “There's someone over there."

  Kiefer followed Paul's gaze and saw a person, made indistinct by distance and fog. He brought his binoculars to his eyes. “Jeez! It's a man. He's carrying an orange basketball or something. And it looks like he's only wearing a garbage bag."

  "Come on!” said Alex.

  "He's not an old guy,” said Kiefer. “He looks like he's about my brother's age.” He handed the binoculars to Alex while keeping his eyes on the approaching figure.

  "Look at the way he's moving,” said Alex. “Do you think he's drunk? Maybe he was so blitzed he just ripped off his clothes."

  Kiefer gave an “I don't know” shrug.

  Paul looked down at his scout uniform and then back at the man. “Maybe,” he said in a slow, dreamy voice. “Maybe he didn't want to be what his clothes wanted him to be."

  * * * *

  Adrian weaved from one side of the medium to the other, looking for Styrofoam encapsulated sustenance. He felt unsteady on his feet from lack of food and he was thirsty, perpetually thirsty.

  Angry again at the unfairness of his court trial and conviction, he'd once more stripped off his jumpsuit and converted it into a soccer ball. He carried it as he foraged for water and food. He wondered, though, if he'd last through the day to sleep in it again.

  He found a cup with a couple of ounces of melted ice water: a major find, a tiny lake. He threw back his head and downed the precious liquid, licking the last hint of moisture from the cup. He brought his head forward and happened to look, not downward for litter, but forward. He squinted, not trusting his eyes. There among the trees he saw what looked like a tent. Two tents, in fact. Impossible! And stranger still,
it looked as if there were people sitting in front of one of them—small people. Island dwarfism with people? No! It's got to be a mirage? Wishful thinking?

  Adrian lurched toward the trees. As he drew closer, he saw that the people weren't dwarfs, but three kids in American Boy Scout uniforms—and they were sitting in front of food. It smelled wonderful. He came to a stop in front of them, but he couldn't take his eyes off the boiling pot.

  One of the kids, the tallest one, got to his feet. Then the other two stood.

  "Hi,” said Adrian.

  "Hi,” the tall kid said warily.

  They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.

  "Was it that you didn't want to...” said the smallest kid in a small voice, “didn't want to get your scout uniform dirty?"

  Adrian couldn't help chuckling. “Technically I still am a scout. Central Escarpment Council, Mississauga, Ontario.” He extended his left hand to the tall kid. I hope American scouts also shake with the left-hand.

  The tall kid hesitated, then smiled and shook hands. “I'm Kiefer.” He paused. “But everybody calls me Kif. I'm ... I'm the patrol leader of the Screaming Beavers.” He pointed to the short kid standing beside and a step behind him. “That's Paul, and"—he swiveled his head to his other side—"that's Alex."

  "Hi,” said Alex with a small wave of the hand.

  "Are you hungry?” asked Paul.

  "I'm famished." Adrian realized that this time, it was not merely a figure of speech.

  Kiefer nodded over at the pot. “It's probably not going to be any good, but there's a lot of it. We always make too much."

  Over the next half hour or so, Adrian and the scouts became easy friends. Kiefer had lent Adrian a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Since Adrian was thin and Kiefer big for his age, the fit wasn't too bad. Adrian had afterward, with a running soccer kick, sent his jumpsuit fifteen or so yards down the median. He, an intramural soccer player, felt embarrassed that he'd not been able to kick it farther.

  Having so recently been an active Venture Scout back home in Canada, chatting around a cookout felt natural to Adrian.

  "...and the prosecutor hated drugs and hated Canadians and hated Cornell. He said he'd make an example of me.” Adrian, lounging against a tree, took a suck at his butterscotch pudding squeeze tube. “Three months sentence. And so there goes most of my freshman year at Cornell."

  "That stinks!” said Alex.

  "My brother's at Cornell,” said Kiefer. “He's majoring in computer science. What were you studying?"

  "Were.” Adrian gave a bark of a laugh. “I was majoring in forest ecology.” He took a long breath. “But when this is over, I'll try to get in to the University of Toronto and specialize in the ecology of median strips of divided highways."

  "Ecology of median strips?” said Alex. “For real? I didn't know you could study that."

  "Well, you probably can't—yet.” Adrian glanced from one traffic river to the other. “But there is a separate ecology here. It's like a world, an island—narrow and long. Seeds can get here by birds or wind but not by being carried by mammals.” He felt himself warming to the subject. He really did want to study it at U of T. “Any mammals that do get here are probably the most adventuresome and most intelligent—if they've risked crossing the highway. And the ecology isn't static. I'd guess that the mammals would be moving north because of global warming.” Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he stopped. It wasn't “cool” to be recklessly enthusiastic.

  After a few moments of silence, Paul said, “Here are some moving north right now.” He pointed at the animals, a group of small cats. “They're cute."

  "Kittens!” Kiefer rolled to his feet and moved slowly forward at a crouch, tempting the cats with butterscotch pudding.

  Showing no sign of fear, a cat approached him. Kiefer held out the squeeze tube and moved his other hand to pet the animal.

  "No!” shouted Adrian.

  The cat darted away and Kiefer turned angrily around.

  "Yeah, they're cute,” said Adrian, getting to his feet. “But they're full-grown cats. And they're vicious. Cute, kitten-sized, and vicious."

  "Come on!” said Alex. “Vicious."

  "Killer cats of the narrow world,” said Paul.

  "I'm serious,” said Adrian. “One of them mauled me.” He pointed to the bite mark on his hand.

  "Jeez!” said Kiefer.

  The four watched as the cats skirted around the campsite and continued north.

  "Probably following the rats,” said Kiefer.

  "You've seen the rats?” said Adrian.

  "Hey,” said Paul. “What's going on?” The others turned to look at him. “The traffic.” He pointed. There were far fewer cars and trucks than there had been just minutes earlier.

  They stared at the diminishing traffic.

  "An accident?” said Alex.

  "On both sides?” said Kiefer. “No. I don't think so."

  Over the next five minutes, the traffic slowed to the occasional car, and then to nothing and the road noise was noticeable by its absence.

  "Spooky,” said Paul.

  "I wish we had a radio,” said Alex.

  Paul looked up the highway display board stanchion to a message panel, but its angle obscured the message. “Wish we could read that."

  "Oh, wait!” Kiefer, apparently remembering he had binoculars hanging down over his shirt, brought them to his eyes. “There's another display board."

  "What's it say?” said Alex.

  "It says...” Kiefer adjusted the focus. “Highway closed. Exit now. Danger. Do not stop. Do not leave your vehicles.” He aimed lower. “Hey. The rats are running across the road to the other side."

  "They know enough to get away from the cats while they can,” said Adrian.

  "Do you see any cats following them?” said Paul.

  "No."

  "I wonder what's going on.” Alex said.

  Kiefer lowered his binoculars and turned to Adrian. “I wonder if they're stopping traffic,” he said, looking at Adrian with a touch of apprehension. “So they can catch you." He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure all you did was smoke some marijuana?"

  "Yeah,” said Adrian. “That's all I did.” He felt a tinge of embarrassment as he noticed he'd unconsciously raised his hand in the scout-sign. “Scout's honor,” he added with a self-effacing smile.

  "Come on, Kif,” said Alex. “He's okay."

  Kiefer smiled. “Yeah, I guess.” He glanced back over the deserted roadways. “Maybe we'd better pack up and follow the rats."

  "Why?” said Alex. “I think we should stay put and see what happens."

  "It's sort of exciting,” said Paul. “I'd like to stay."

  "Yeah, okay,” said Kiefer. “But let's pack up anyway. In case we have to leave in a hurry."

  Even with Adrian helping, breaking camp went slowly—degenerating to tag games at times.

  "Just like my old troop,” said Adrian, smiling. “Takes forever to pack up because everyone hates to do cleanup."

  "I hate it too,” Kiefer said.

  "What's that?” said Paul, softly, staring off in the distance.

  Kiefer used his binoculars. “Looks like a helicopter. It looks like it's coming this way."

  In silence they watched as the helicopter drew close. When it had gotten almost on top of them, a sound boomed down from it.

  "Attention. Danger. Attention."

  "Focused sound waves,” Adrian said under his breath. “Impressive!"

  "Attention. Anyone on the Route 81X median. Leave the median at once. Phone 911 if you need assistance. Grave danger. Leave the median at once."

  Paul began jumping up and down, waving frantically at the helicopter. “Hey! There are people down here! We're on the median."

  "Save your breath,” said Alex. “It's a drone."

  "A drone.” Kiefer scowled. “That's dumb. Using a drone for something like this."

  "Phone 911 if you need assistance. Grave danger. Leave the median
at once."

  Kiefer reached in his pocket. “My cell phone! Damn it! I've lost my phone."

  "Guys,” Adrian said evenly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “I think we'd better get out of here."

  "I've got to find that phone. It's my brother's.” Kiefer glanced at the helicopter. “He'll kill me if I lose it. Anyway, we have time. They wouldn't warn us and not give us time."

  Kiefer started searching, walking back the way they'd come, peering down into the grass and feeling around with a foot. Alex and Paul joined the search.

  Adrian had about decided to threaten them with bodily harm if they didn't pick up their gear and leave the median, when a horrible scream rent the air. Kiefer keeled over, falling hard to the ground. Adrian sprinted to him. The boy was clutching his bloodied lower leg and howling. Instantly, Adrian understood the situation although he could hardly believe it. Kiefer's leg was held in a high-tech bear trap. Adrian dropped to his knees. Before his family had moved south from northern Manitoba, he'd seen those traps used to keep Polar Bears out of populated areas. “Don't struggle! It's a resistance-adaptive trap. The more you struggle the tighter it gets."

  Paul and Alex jogged up. “Oh, my god!” said Paul, breathing in gasps and looking traumatized.

  "The skin's broken,” said Adrian, examining the trap without success for a release lever. “But, despite what looks like a lot of blood, he's not seriously hurt."

  "What'll we do?” Alex said at a whisper.

  "You and Paul get out of here!"

  "No.” Alex barked the word. “I'm not leaving him."

  "Me neither.” Paul clearly nauseated by the sight of the blood looked away. “Oh no!” he said, his eyes, horror-filled and locked on a distant image.

  Far away, two helicopters looming out of the fog progressed slowly but steadily toward them. From the bottom of the front helicopter, a gray gas spewed out, broadening to a cloud as it found the earth below. From the second helicopter, a painfully brilliant violet beam shot out, raking back and forth over the median.

  Just then, a wolf howl came from the ground.

  Everyone jumped at the sound—except Kiefer.

  "Kif's phone,” Alex called out. He sprinted toward the sound.

  While Paul again jumped up and down, waving, trying to get the helicopters to see him, Alex ran the phone to Kiefer. He flipped open the device as he handed it over.