The gas-both regular and unleaded-smelled awful even to him, and worse yet, it wouldn't burn. Some environmental s.h.i.t, probably, and that frightened him. If the government found out, he'd probably have to rip out his buried tanks and install new liners. In that case, Morgret would just up and abandon the gas station, leaving it for the crows.

The Oilstar tanker truck had not come up from Bakersfield with his delivery this week-but Morgret had no money to pay the driver anyway, and his credit was as good as wet toilet paper. Morgret wondered if he was liable to the oil company for contaminated gas.

He laid an old newspaper on the seat of his lawn chair to keep his pants from getting wet. The morning remained cool, but he sat in the shade because the air was bound to get warmer and he wouldn't feel much like moving in an hour or so. Morgret lounged back to watch the world go by.

Except the world wasn't going by. No traffic. Nothing.

Toward midmorning he heard a hollow, clopping sound coming down the road; it took him a moment to recognize the sound of shod horses, not the roaming wild herd. In a moment, three riders came around the curve. They wore canvas panchos dotted with dark splotches from leftover raindrops. All three had long hair; the smallest, youngest-looking man had a thin moustache, but the other two were cleanshaven. Morgret recognized the broad-shouldered Hispanic man on the black stallion at once. Morgret struggled to get up from his folding lawn chair by the time Carlos Bettario rode up to the gas pump.

Years spent outdoors had given Bettario's skin the look and feel of well-worn leather. He tied his long, pepper-colored hair in a ponytail that hung behind a flat-brimmed Clint Eastwood hat.

They nodded nonchalantly at each other. "Howdy, Carlos," said Morgret. He looked at the stallion, then at his gas pump. "Fill 'er up?"

The other two riders, ranch hands he supposed, chuckled. Bettario patted the stallion's muscular neck, and said without the slightest trace of an accent, "No thank you, sir, I think this one still has a full tank."

"Just another p.i.s.s-head who doesn't want any gas! What brings you down from the dude ranch, Carlos? Inviting me to a church social?"

Bettario owned and operated Rancho Inyo, a popular tourist ranch near Lake Isabella, where the idiot vacationers could pretend to be cowboys. It had made Bettario a rich man.

"h.e.l.l, if you had any gasoline, I'd buy every drop. But I don't expect you're better than anybody else in the country." Bettario laughed. "No, I came to rescue you, my friend."

Morgret scowled at him and sat back down in his creaking chair. How had Bettario known the gas pumps had gone bad? "Rescue me? What are you talking about, Carlos?"

"From the plague, man. What're you going to do with yourself now? Your station was barely surviving before." With a gesture of his chin, Bettario indicated the dilapidated house trailer, the sign that still said LAST CHANCE.

Morgret narrowed his eyes. "What plague?"

The ranch hands exchanged glances. Bettario took off his hat. "Man, you must be kidding me! Don't you watch the news?"

"Gee, Carlos, I must not have paid my cable TV bill for the month. I've been thinking about getting one of those two-thousand-dollar satellite antennas-but it wouldn't do me much good, since I don't even own a d.a.m.ned television! I ain't got a newspaper that's less than a month old."

Bettario shook his head. "Man, a plague is wiping out all the gas, and now plastic too. People are going nuts. We're lucky we live up here away from the chaos." The stallion snorted, as if he disagreed with Bettario's opinion of 'lucky.' "Me, I'm smart enough to realize that we're going to have to pull together and work our cojones cojones off to make it through the first year." off to make it through the first year."

Morgret squinted at him, but Bettario wasn't the type to play practical jokes. And it did explain the bad gas, the total lack of traffic, the week-late gas tanker. "So, you're coming to rescue me, huh?"

The stallion nosed around for something to nibble on. Bettario jerked the reins to raise the horse's head. "We got rid of the tourists at Rancho Inyo, and I have room for a few people who know what they're doing. You've been around a long time, d.i.c.k. You're full of bulls.h.i.t, but you've also got a lot of common sense, and you know how to work. I need men to help keep the larders stocked, which means hunting and fishing and working with the livestock. We're going to round up the wild horses, because without automobiles, horses will be worth more than gold.

"You also know how to fix things," Carlos continued. "Rancho Inyo gets its power from the hydroelectric plant by the reservoir. Even without oil to burn, I suppose a dam and a waterwheel can keep working-if we figure out a way to keep them lubricated."

Bettario smiled down at Morgret standing in his coveralls. "Come with me back to the ranch, d.i.c.k. My boys here will help you pack up whatever you want to take along."

Morgret raised his eyebrows, then gestured expansively toward the leaking trailer, the fouled-up gas pumps, the empty highway. "Let me get this straight, Carlos. You want me to leave all this all this just so I can hunt and fish the whole day long? Round up some horses, chop some wood, for free room and board at a place where the city slickers pay a hundred dollars a night?" just so I can hunt and fish the whole day long? Round up some horses, chop some wood, for free room and board at a place where the city slickers pay a hundred dollars a night?"

"A hundred fifty, last year." Bettario nodded. "Yeah, sums it up pretty well."

"Sounds better than getting jabbed in the eye with a sharp stick." Morgret glanced around the small patch of land he owned by virtue of squatter's rights. He had grown roots here, but somehow it didn't feel like he was leaving anything behind.

"Carlos, get your boys to help me take down this LAST CHANCE sign, then I'll be ready to go."

Chapter 37.

A pounding on the door pierced through the layers of fog that enveloped Jeffrey Mayeaux's mind, waking him out of a blissful few hours of sleep. He hated the constant interruptions that came with being an "important man." Well, in another year he could forget all that bilgewater.

Mayeaux woke up, smelling the disorienting strangeness of new sheets. Pieces fell into place. Two-story resort apartment in Ocean City, a getaway Weathersee had arranged for him a month ago. And n.o.body was supposed to know where he was. Pickled crawfish! Weathersee must have blabbed.

The pounding returned from somewhere outside the darkened bedroom . . . the front door. It was too d.a.m.n early for a person to think. Besides, this was what, Sunday?

He started to roll over and get off the bed when the woman beside him moaned softly in her sleep; her head rested on his arm. Mayeaux could still smell sweat on the sheets. She was in her early twenties, large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, small a.s.s, long blond hair. She brayed like a mule when she came, but it had turned him on a little. Too bad she had the face like a mule, too, but who cared?

As memories of last night came back to him, he felt another erection stirring. Weathersee had arranged for the babe to be waiting for him at the condo. Mayeaux never knew whether his Chief of Staff actually paid for these women, or if he enticed them in some other way. Good old Weathersee.

Mayeaux's wife knew the locations of his "love nests," and she even called him once in a while when she needed his help with one of the houses or some other emergency. But no one was supposed to know about the Ocean City place.

The door would probably splinter soon under the relentless pounding. The sheer monotonous nature told him it was probably some security goons. Anybody with half a brain would have figured out by now that Mayeaux didn't want to talk to anybody. What a great way to wake up and start the day.

Mayeaux somehow managed to slide off the side of the bed and pick up his robe without waking the babe.

He could hear a m.u.f.fled voice yelling his name as he closed the bedroom door behind him and padded down the stairs. "Hold on, Boog, for gawd's sake," he said.

The saeside apartment smelled of stale wine and ripe cheese. Sunlight streamed across the foyer where he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before. How he wished he could find someplace in the D.C. area that served decent cafe au lait and beignets for breakfast.

With the spreading panic and the mechanical breakdowns caused by the gasoline plague sweeping across the country, Mayeaux should have realized he couldn't get away for a day. Just one f.u.c.king day, and it had been planned for months. Granted, he could recognize the magnitude of the growing crisis-but he he wasn't in charge. Other people could take care of things for a few hours, couldn't they? wasn't in charge. Other people could take care of things for a few hours, couldn't they?

By Friday night only a few outbreaks had been reported in Maryland and a few in Virginia, but the news got more frantic hour after hour. California had closed its borders, far too late to stop the spread of the plague, and information from the west coast was sporadic.

Vice President Wolani had been stuck in Chicago on a speaking tour when the FAA ordered an immediate shutdown of the entire commercial airline industry in the wake of a dozen major crashes that had been blamed on disintegrating plastic components.

Mayeaux had chuckled upon learning that President Holback was stranded in the Middle East on his widely publicized diplomatic tour to Qatar, or one of those countries, when Air Force One itself was found to be infected with the petroplague . . . and now the petroleum-eating microorganisms were ravaging some of the largest Arabian oil fields. He wouldn't want to be in Holback's shoes at the moment.

"Mr. Speaker? Are you in there?" The voice from outside sounded loud and firm enough to pierce the solid door.

Mayeaux peered through the peephole. Two men in dark suits stood on his porch, wires running from their collars to earplugs. He could see three other men standing out in the sand. Secret Service? Secret Service? Jeez, couldn't they be a bit more subtle? They stood out like a day-glow billboard in this beach town. Jeez, couldn't they be a bit more subtle? They stood out like a day-glow billboard in this beach town.

A chill raced down his back. d.a.m.n, what could they want? Was this a sting? His initial fear that he was in trouble left him quickly-someone in authority would be present, an official from Justice, if he had done anything wrong. And Mayeaux had never made any secret about his affairs.

But Secret Service, here here? If it was so d.a.m.ned important to wake him up on a Sunday morning, Weathersee should have telephoned him. Then he remembered having his calls forwarded to the office; he'd unplugged the phones here since his wife and kids were staying with friends.

The Secret Service man seemed to sense him standing on the other side of the door. "Mr. Speaker-it's important, sir. We have to speak with you."

Mayeaux peered beyond the man in the peephole. The beach had been cordoned. The place was surrounded by plain-clothes officers.

"Yes?" Oh, s.h.i.t. Oh, s.h.i.t. Mayeaux's mind whirled. For the first time in years, he found it difficult to keep his political mask in place. Mayeaux's mind whirled. For the first time in years, he found it difficult to keep his political mask in place.

"It's urgent, sir."

As Mayeaux unbolted the door, the Secret Service man pushed his way in. The other, as big as a professional linebacker, motioned to the rest of the team. Mayeaux smelled the wash of cool, damp air from the ocean.

The first Secret Service officer seemed relieved to see him. "Mr. Speaker, thank G.o.d we found you." But he didn't look Mayeaux in the eye as he spoke-instead, his eyes darted around the apartment, checking, verifying. He wasn't sweating, or ruffled in the least from all his pounding on the door.

Mayeaux sputtered. "What are you talking about?"

Another agent pushed into the townhouse. He spoke to the first man. "Satchmo's secure?"

"Right," said the first agent, who relayed the information through a walkie-talkie.

Mayeaux drew his bathrobe around him, and suddenly froze. Satchmo? Satchmo? The Secret Service used code names for the president, the vice president, and their immediate families . . . . The Secret Service used code names for the president, the vice president, and their immediate families . . . .

He'd had enough of this c.r.a.p. "All right, what's going on? Did Holback send you here to hara.s.s me?"

The first agent stopped, his face suddenly screwed into a hard look. His blue eyes continued to flick back and forth. "No, sir. We have to inform you that Vice President Harald Wolani was killed last night in an elevator accident in the Sears Tower in Chicago. The plague has spread there, sir, somewhat more extensively than expected."

"Wolani's dead?" Mayeaux stepped back, b.u.mping into the pale blue sofa. He automatically started to sit down, but he locked his knees and stood up again.

Mayeaux wanted a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary-h.e.l.l, make it a George d.i.c.kel, neat!-but he couldn't get up the nerve to walk to the wet bar.

"We have also lost contact with the president, sir," the first agent said. "There's a great deal of turmoil in Qatar, and the last communication we had from the amba.s.sador was that the Qatar government is refusing to guarantee the president's safety. We have been unable to reestablish communication."

"Jeffrey, what's going on? Should I come down?" A sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom upstairs.

"No!" Mayeaux shouted. He didn't have the slightest idea what the b.i.t.c.h's name was.

An agent ran up the stairs. "I'll check it out."

"You know what this means, sir-" the first agent continued, finally halting his roving gaze and meeting Mayeaux's eyes.

"Of course I know!" he said. Then he finally allowed himself to slump onto the sofa. "I'm acting as president until you can reestablish contact with Holback."

"If we can reestablish contact, sir. President Holback is a prime target for retribution." we can reestablish contact, sir. President Holback is a prime target for retribution."

"You d.a.m.n well better reestablich contact!" Mayeaux climbed to his feet again, feeling his legs shake. "Get me some coffee." Turning his back on the Secret Service agent, he walked slowly and carefully toward the kitchenette.

The agent continued, as if he had been wound up and needed to finish his routine. "The beach area is secure, sir. We need to get you back to DC. To swear you in."

Mayeaux drew a breath and felt his head hammer with panic. Everything was happening too fast. He had expected to retire after this term, and settle back in New Orleans. He had arranged everything for a quiet and lucrative lobbying career. Everything had been arranged. Mayeaux flopped out a hand to steady himself.

Strangers shoved into the apartment; loud voices and activity swirled around him. Everything seemed unreal. Outside, the Secret Service people checked the convoy. An army gasoline truck pulled up, ready to follow the limousines. It was only a three-hour drive back to the White House. Even if some of the vehicles broke down en route, at least one would make it all the way.

And Mayeaux would be sworn in.

He stood blinking in surprise.

He didn't want to be president in the middle of what looked like the gravest crisis since World War II. If not worse.

Chapter 38.

The world around Albuquerque broke into smaller and smaller pieces, and General Bayclock knew survival might depend on the Air Force Base's stockpile of emergency supplies. In the late afternoon, he stepped out of the dim Base HQ building and looked around at the streets of Kirtland, appalled at the rapid change.

The silence was deafening, where once the roar of airplanes landing and taking off from the flight line had soothed Bayclock all day long. No flights had come into the airport in two days, now that all air traffic had been frozen.

Relying only on scrambled, broken communications that did more to cause panic than convey information, Bayclock had placed Kirtland Air Force Base on DEFCON 3 status, pulling all essential personnel onto the base and increasing guards at each of the gates. Within hours of the first evidence of the plague's effects, he had ordered the commissary and BX on strict rationing.

Now, the once-chaotic streets were empty of traffic. Under Bayclock's orders, the base quickly adapted to the new routine. A few airmen and civilian workers walked down the sidewalk across the street, past a parking lot full of cars, vans, and government vehicles that would probably never start again. One rider puttered down the empty lanes on a moped that ran on alcohol. It wouldn't be long before its plastic components gave out and caused the vehicle to break down like its gas-burning counterparts.

Having dismissed his aide, Bayclock set off on foot toward the base exchange to take care of his own needs. Food. Canned goods. Bottled water. His personal quota should be there waiting for him. He wondered if he needed to place an extra set of armed guards at the BX doors.

He trusted his people, and he knew they would follow orders. They'd had the chain-of-command drilled into them since Basic Training, but Bayclock felt uneasy about his tenuous grip on civilization. He felt out of touch, forced to make decisions with too little information. He was reluctant to risk overreacting in the face of the plague, but now it appeared that the germ was even more voracious than his worst fears. In mere days, Albuquerque had become a shambles.

Bayclock crossed the avenue in front of the HQ, habitually looking both ways before stepping into the crosswalk, then headed down the block. He saw no lights on in any of the barracks-style buildings, though some of the base personnel had opened windows to let the breeze in.

As he walked through the eerie, stifled silence, he thought about the death of Vice President Wolani two days earlier. It had shocked him deeply, but even with the President out of the country, Bayclock had solid faith in the chain of command.

The base exchange annex looked too crowded as he approached. Bayclock straightened his cap and walked briskly forward, squinting in the low-slanted sunlight. Hand-painted sandwich board signs stood propped by the BX gas pumps. CONTAMINATED FUEL. As if anybody could drive there to fill up their tanks!

A handful of people in and out of uniform milled around the BX. A ripple pa.s.sed through the crowd as a tall captain noticed Bayclock and gave a salute. Bayclock returned the salute and walked through the open gla.s.s doors.

He set about gathering up anything he might need for the next few days, focusing his attention with relentless determination. The shelves looked half empty, well picked-over. Up at the cash register, the middle-aged male checker argued with an enlisted man over how many boxes of dried milk he could take. Bayclock felt like he was in combat again as he took the two remaining cans of soup-tomato and split pea, which he didn't even like-and some bags of Cracklin' Hot pork rinds.

As he picked up the pork rinds, though, his fingers slipped through the plastic package as if it were a half-cooked egg white. The thin film broken, air seeped out of the package, and the bag collapsed into a mucous-like slime. He stared in disgust and shock, then shook his hand to fling away the goop.

Down another aisle, plastic bottles of soda wept droplets of moisture. One bottle of Nehi grape split and collapsed, spurting purple liquid over the floor. From the sticky mess on the floor, he could tell that random bottles had been doing that all day long as different types of plastic succ.u.mbed to the microbe.

One of the BX employees, a youngish black woman with her hair trimmed as bristly short as Bayclock's, see-sawed with a mop, frantically trying to clean up foul-smelling chlorine bleach that dribbled over the shelves into boxes of other detergents. Bayclock stiffened as he thought of the nearby plastic bottles of ammonia. If all the chemicals spilled together, they might mix to form a cloud of deadly chlorine gas.

"You! Move those bottles of ammonia!" he snapped. The woman jumped, looking at him. She dropped the mop handle. It clacked against the metal shelves as it fell. Bayclock raised his voice, annoyed at her hesitation. "Do it now."

Without watching to see if she followed his order, Bayclock collected his rations and took his place in line at the cash register. The woman in front of him held a plastic gallon container of milk; as Bayclock watched, the handle stretched and snapped off. Milk poured down the woman's leg and gurgled onto the floor. She dropped the container, staring stupidly at it as if her pet dog had just bitten her. Milk splashed on Bayclock's clean trouser leg.

He stepped back, frowning at the mess she had made of his uniform. The floor felt tacky, as if from many spilled substances-but then he noticed that the linoleum itself had begun to soften.

He grabbed his supply of canned food, glanced at it, and tossed a twenty-dollar bill at the middle-aged cashier. "Keep it," he growled. "That's more than enough."