The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [140]
I'm not sure what a jelly is.
"The Gulf Stream still runs," he continues. "Maybe not as hard as it should. But at least the oceans haven't suffocated yet."
May frowns, but she won't take her eyes off me. "The sea is beautiful," she insists. "And there are a lot of fish and some whales even."
"Yeah, some," says her brother.
"Summer," I repeat. "A long time on the road."
"And we didn't know if we would make it," she says cheerfully. "Dad and his friends built this truck. We've got great tires and a special suspension and the motor burns almost anything. But you can't trust bridges anymore. And even if you find people, sometimes there isn't any fuel."
"People give up their alcohol?" Ferris asks skeptically.
To nobody in particular, she says, "We barter for it. Trade news and goods from other places. When we started out, we had fruit and dried fish strapped on top, and every cubbyhole was filled with some little treasure."
And they stole their fuel too. I don't see them as thieves, but there is no way to come this far and not take what charity won't surrender.
May's father stands on the other side of the old woman. He has to bend fonvard to look around her, asking me, "Would it be all right? Mom and I would love to see our old house."
Crossing half of the continent to tour one building. That might be the most unlikely story that I've ever heard. Yet the mayor leaps to the cause. "It's my house, and please. You'd be my welcomed guests, yes."
Except grandma isn't in the mood. She watches her arm lift when her son pulls at it. Yanking her hand free, she snaps, "I don't want to be here. I want to lie down."
Her son doesn't seem like the patient kind. "Mom," he says with a complaining tone. "Don't be difficult please."
But the woman starts to drop again, seemingly melting into the dull red bricks underfoot.
May jumps right in. "There's a good bed in that house, grandma."
"What?" she asks.
"A fine place to sleep, and warm too."
Perhaps the woman reconsiders her decision. More likely, she has already forgotten her planned collapse.
"Come on, grandma. Show me which room was yours."
And just like that, we start to walk. May remains close to the slow, stately woman, and I'm taking sluggish little steps to keep my place beside her. The present mayor is the gray-haired son of the second mayor - my mother's old ally. He normally can't look at me without showing his contempt. But on this exceptional occasion he manages to smile in my direction, showing the world his friendliness. "We have the biggest distillery in two hundred miles," he boasts. "And you're certainly welcome to take all the fuel you can carry."
May looks at me and says, "Thank you." As if I am the gracious one.
I match her smile, my step growing lighter. When was the last time a young woman gave me this kind of undeserved attention? It was Lola, of course, and a small, bearable guilt gnaws at me.
"Unless of course you want to remain here in Salvation," the mayor continues. "We're always looking for good neighbors."
The girl seems ready for the suggestion. It isn't that she acts uneasy, but it feels as if a hundred other topics would be more welcome. May nods. She pretends to consider the offer. Then with a polite, practiced tone, she says,
"We might stay for a little while."
"But we're pushing north," the brother announces. "North before spring."
Curiosity changes directions. Older voices name likely places.
"Farther north," Winston declares. Then catching something in his father's gaze, he adds, "Nobody cares where we're going. These people are staying right here."
May tugs fondly on her grandmother's arm.
With a quiet voice, I ask her, "Where?"
She doesn't want to reply. But silence only makes these matters more difficult. Not too softly and not too privately, she tells me, "Canada."
"Nothing there but moose," I warn. With its nearly perfect inoculation