Leaning back on the old wooden bench, Rex took a sip of red table wine-Gamay Beaujolais 1991, liberated from the Sandstone Crest winery, best served at room temperature (which was about all he could get these days, now that refrigeration was out of the question). He rolled the wine on his tongue, swallowed slowly to feel the warm bite, to taste the oak.

In front of him, bright in the morning sunshine, the refurbished old steam locomotive sat in front of him on the tracks. Steam Roller. Steam Roller. He admired the train, wishing the day would go on forever. And because of the petroplague, it just might. Nothing much would change around here for a long time. He admired the train, wishing the day would go on forever. And because of the petroplague, it just might. Nothing much would change around here for a long time.

For the moment at least, Rex had everything he could want-plenty of wine, the run of the tourist train station, and no one to bother him now that the weekend crowds fought for survival in the big cities rather than taking a leisurely ride through wine country on an authentic turn-of-the-century steam train.

He had pulled all the dried food and snacks from the refreshment stand, adding to his own stockpile in the small home behind the station. He figured he'd stashed enough food to get by for half a year. The eating would get dull, imported water crackers and some cheese, canned vegetables to supplement whatever he could scrounge from his garden, bottled mineral water. But there was plenty of wine. He would survive.

At forty-five and without a family, Rex O'Keefe's world extended little beyond the railroad tracks and the train station, even now after the petroplague had caused the old Steam Roller Steam Roller to gasp her last breath, unless he could find some other lubricants and gaskets. to gasp her last breath, unless he could find some other lubricants and gaskets.

He hadn't cared much for the people when they came around anyway. What was the point being boot-licking and nice to strangers who would never come by again? The locals themselves never bothered to ride Rex's train; they had their own tourist industry to watch over.

Rex was content to be alone with his memories. From the time he'd been old enough to own an electric Lionel until he got his first job at 14 stoking wood on the refurbished Steam Roller Steam Roller, Rex had lived for the day when he could work on the trains.

But now the d.a.m.n locomotive just sat there, unable to move, stalled in place.

Rex stood on tired legs and sauntered out to the behemoth that sat frozen on the tracks. Painted a deep black, the Steam Roller Steam Roller burned wood in her furnace, heating water in the boiler to drive one of the last locomotives that had not transferred over to coal or diesel. He could smell the creosote from the railroad ties, the old deteriorating oils on the driving wheels, the caked soot from the furnace. burned wood in her furnace, heating water in the boiler to drive one of the last locomotives that had not transferred over to coal or diesel. He could smell the creosote from the railroad ties, the old deteriorating oils on the driving wheels, the caked soot from the furnace.

Even motionless, Steam Roller Steam Roller was a sight too pretty just to look at. Rex pulled a red bandanna out of his blue-and-white railroad overalls-the cliched outfit the tourists expected him to wear-and began to polish the bra.s.s pistons. was a sight too pretty just to look at. Rex pulled a red bandanna out of his blue-and-white railroad overalls-the cliched outfit the tourists expected him to wear-and began to polish the bra.s.s pistons.

He ran his hand along the metal siding, then boosted himself up to the engineer's cab where he tried to work the controls. For a moment he imagined himself riding the tracks as the train chugged through the valleys, a throbbing rhythmic rattle as the wheels pa.s.sed over crossings. The lush green vineyards extended on either side of the cab, pale vines stretched out along wires in flickering razor-straight rows that looked like optical illusions stretched out to the hills.

Blinking his eyes, Rex reached up to grab the steam release, when a low voice came from behind the cab, startling him. "Shame to let a beauty like this rust away."

Rex whirled, opening and closing his mouth as if he expected the right words to fall automatically out. He took a second to focus on the stranger: a bearlike man, built short and stocky, with blotchy dark skin and not a hair on his head. The stranger's scalp had been freshly shaved; even the eyebrows were gone.

Rex felt the sour taste of wine claw up his throat. He said hoa.r.s.ely, "Yeah, she's my train. What do you want?"

The bald man said nothing, only turned to look over the train, admiring it. Rex wanted to leave, to go back into the station, but he couldn't move, couldn't leave the locomotive unguarded. What if the strange man was a vandal or something? The bad taste in his mouth wouldn't go away.

Rex hadn't had much trouble in the week or so since the plague struck the wine country north of San Francisco. The train station was away from most of the town buildings, and he didn't have anything marauders would want.

Rex waved an arm, shooing the man away. "You shouldn't be here. This place is closed."

The bald man hauled himself up into the engineer's cab beside Rex and ran his hand along the wooden console, the controls. "How long since you fired her up?" His voice was confident, as if accustomed to taking charge of such a vessel.

"Uh?" Rex stopped at the question. "Started the train? Are you crazy? Nothing runs anymore."

"Well, I probably am crazy. But this train was built long before we started using petroleum products for everything. It was designed for other alternatives, no matter what you've been using lately," said the man. "With a few people to help, we could get this train running again."

"We? Whose train do you think this is?" Rex c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "You are a crazy man!"

The squat stranger raised the folds that used to be his eyebrows, wrinkling the shaved skin on his forehead. "You got any other plans for it?"

Two days later, when Rex believed the stranger meant what he said, he persuaded the Gambotti brothers and Frank Haverson and Jerry Miles to leave their vineyards and spend a few hours in the afternoon joining in the effort.

They took apart the Steam Roller's Steam Roller's gear box, the piston shaft, the axle, and the controls. Forced by a long screwdriver and steady pressure, each item reluctantly opened up. Smelly lard and gobs of fat, skimmed off the surface of a boiling pot brought in from the Gambotti vineyards yielded enough lubricant for the first round. gear box, the piston shaft, the axle, and the controls. Forced by a long screwdriver and steady pressure, each item reluctantly opened up. Smelly lard and gobs of fat, skimmed off the surface of a boiling pot brought in from the Gambotti vineyards yielded enough lubricant for the first round.

The bald, dark stranger spoke little, sweating and working harder than two of them combined. Rex tried to keep up. The stranger became obsessed with getting the train working again.

Rex couldn't pinpoint when the stranger took control of the effort, nor did he care. They worked from the first light of dawn until they could no longer see in the dark. The stranger ate his water crackers and vegetables in silence. Given the choice, he drank mineral water instead of wine.

Rex O'Keefe took a long gulp from his cup-Gewurtztraminer, this time, a bit young but bright and fruity-and watched the swarthy man with the shaved head. The man put down his empty plate, lit a candle, and went back outside to work.

Rex wondered what burden the stranger bore that drove him to work so hard.

Chapter 43.

Armed guards, once discreetly hidden behind banks of high-tech observation equipment, now openly patrolled the White House complex. Barricades cut off foot traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue to the north and E Street to the south. The Old Executive Office Building and the Treasury Building served as heavily fortified buffers to the west and east.

Hunching down, Jeffrey Mayeaux walked in the middle of his team of escorts through the wrought-iron gate. Leather patches on the hinges served as makeshift lubrication for the gates. More sophisticated artificial lubricants could have been shipped in from the Department of Commerce's NIST laboratory in Gaithersburg, Maryland, but those were being stockpiled for emergency use.

Mayeaux thought of the briefing given to him while he was driven back to Washington with a military guard. Four of the convoy trucks had succ.u.mbed to the petroplague during the three-hour drive.

As of an hour ago, President Holback was officially declared dead. Short-wave radio transmissions stated that some sort of mob action in Qatar had killed the president and his escorts, then burned the American emba.s.sy in retaliation for the petroplague ravaging the Middle East oil fields.

With the breakdown in communications, none of this could be incontrovertibly confirmed, Mayeaux knew. But none of that would let him off the hook. He was going to be sworn in as the actual president, not just the acting Commander-in-Chief. No pomp, no ceremony-just an emergency action. The world was turning into one giant dog t.u.r.d, and it was being plopped right in his lap.

Even under normal conditions, he'd never felt comfortable coming into the White House's sn.o.bbery-a Southern boy, he didn't have the right background, attend the right schools, or come up through the political system in the right way. The White House staff had treated him with disdain only a few days ago-now Mayeaux looked forward to putting them in their places. From now on, he was going to have to take his pleasures wherever he could. He wondered how the kitchen would react to a request to serve Creole red beans and rice every Monday, as was traditional.

A maintenance woman unrolled heavy-gauge emergency telephone wire across the top of the West Wing; flanked by MPs, Navy personnel lugged baskets of food across West Executive Avenue to the White House Mess.

"This way, Mr. Speaker." The Secret Service escort motioned him toward the heavily guarded side door. Any other time, the President-to-be would have been received at the front of the White House like a conquering hero, chauffeured through the yawning gates to where the Marine guard stood stiffly at the front. The side entrance was reserved for lowly political appointees. But with the turmoil in the city and rumors of snipers, Mayeaux wanted to make himself as small a target as possible. He didn't need all the fuss. h.e.l.l, he didn't even want the job.

A crowd of politicians stood just inside the door. A slight smile came to Mayeaux as he recognized the former President's Chief of Staff, the Science Advisor, the Budget Director. He had seen the others before, but they were too far down the food chain to elicit acknowledgment.

The Chief of Staff steered him past the Situation Room and up the stairs. "Mr. Speaker, we're required to swear you in before updating you on the status of the current emergency. Things have deteriorated and require some drastic decisions." The Chief of Staff had too much of a "trust me" tone. Mayeaux would see to it that good old Weathersee took his place, p.r.o.nto!

"We've already frozen our borders," Mayeaux said. "I was told that the National Security Council is recommending martial law across the entire country, confiscating all untainted oil."

The Science Advisor nodded grimly. "Yes, but it might get tougher still. This is the moral equivalent of fighting a war. Our nation is on the verge of collapse."

Mayeaux paused and studied their grave expressions. What the h.e.l.l was he supposed to do with an att.i.tude like that? "Gentlemen, I have absolutely no intention of letting the United States break apart, if it is within my power to stop it." He extended his palm, indicating for them to lead the way and get a move on.

They took Mayeaux through the Roosevelt Room to the Oval Office, past military campaign streamers, polished wood, fine art, and a n.o.bel Peace Prize on display. A lanky man with long sideburns stood by the Secret Service agent outside the door. He carried a Bible and seemed nervous; he must be one of the lower officials in the Justice Department dug up to administer the oath of office. Figures, they wouldn't get the Chief Justice for him.

The group moved into the Oval Office, filling the room. A row of bushes blooming with flowers outlined the Rose Garden just outside the window. Mayeaux could see the jogging track that encircled the south lawn; a walkway led to the outdoor swimming pool. It seemed too perfect, too good to be true.

He didn't want to be here.

The lanky man with the Bible cleared his throat. "Please raise your hand and swear on the Bible, Mr. Mayeaux."

"Right."

Jeffrey Mayeaux repeated the man's charge, mouthing the oath as it was said to him. The words meant nothing; they were just another set of guidelines to follow, just as his Congressional oath or marriage vows. It wasn't the words that mattered, it was the position, and what he could do with it. He mumbled "So help me G.o.d," and felt no different. With the minor scandals d.o.g.g.i.ng him throughout his past two terms, he had never dreamed he would keep his Congressional office, let alone fall face-first into the presidency! He wasn't ready for this.

As others in the room shook his hand before leading him to the situation room, the Science Advisor's comment stuck with him. This crisis was like fighting a war.

Well, in war, the Commander-in-Chief needed to be obeyed. Mayeaux couldn't afford to have his staff second-guess him. The first thing he would do was fire these throwbacks from Holback's administration and surround himself with people he trusted. Finding a good Vice President was high on the list.

"Mr. Speaker-I mean, Mr. President," the Chief of Staff corrected himself, "we need to get to the Situation Room." He moved to the door.

"In a minute," Mayeaux said. "I have a few things I want to discuss first. A few changes."

Chapter 44.

MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT.

FROM:a.s.sISTANT TO THE PRESIDENT.

FOR SCIENCE, s.p.a.cE AND TECHNOLOGY.

SUBJECT:PETROPLAGUE-AFFECTED MATERIAL.

ADDENDUM 3, CONTINUED.

We have again revised our list to include the following items: Toys Sixpack beverage can rings Photocopy machine bodies Tupperware Polyethylene food wrap Handles/k.n.o.bs/b.u.t.tons Toothbrushes Hair dryers Garment b.u.t.tons Hair brushes Coffee makers Watch faces Most clocks Videotapes Movie film Photographs Floppy diskettes Adhesives Faucet gaskets Electrical switchplates Laminate films Orange highway cones Plastic buckets Shower curtains Plastic tarpaulins Varnish coatings Marquee lettering Driver's licenses, laminated IDs Petroleum jelly Credit cards Lighting fixtures Athletic b.a.l.l.s Wastebaskets Disposable diapers Adhesive tape Plastic utensils Garment b.u.t.tons

Chapter 45.

On horseback, Todd led Iris quickly away from Stanford, out of the city of Palo Alto, and across the South Bay flatlands. Although he wasn't certain where he wanted to end up, he knew they had to head east, away from the Bay area cities.

The mud flats smelled rancid in the low tide, with spoiled garbage and iridescent sc.u.m drying under the sunlight. Gnats buzzed around his face, and the horses' tails whisked like scratchy brooms to drive the pests away. When they finally rode north, reaching solid ground, the tall gra.s.s whispered and shushed beneath the horses' legs, the only sound except for the wind and a few circling birds over the empty network of highways.

Iris rode beside him, jarring him into conversation. Although he felt confident on the horse, he didn't know what to say-he had spent so much time riding down to Stanford to pick her up, he couldn't for the life of him think up any small talk. He had much bigger things to think about-like their survival. But he was content just to be with her, and she seemed not unwilling to stay with him a while.

The sun beat down on his cowboy hat and his calloused, tanned hands gripping the reins. He could smell the horses and his own sweat, which made him wonder if Iris liked cologne. Probably not.

"So," Iris said, jet black hair blowing around her face, "you haven't actually agreed yet. Do you think it's a good idea to make our way to the Altamont and the community up there?"

Todd nodded, but he had been avoiding the question. He was still surprised that Iris had come along with him. "Sounds like a good idea, especially if they've got access to food from the Central Valley, even better if they've managed to rig power from the windmills." He tugged his hat down tighter as a Bay breeze gusted past him. "I'm just a little uncomfortable about living with a bunch of hippies."

"What's the problem? They've been living off the land there for years."

Todd was quiet for a moment. "What if they're growing drugs or something?"

Iris laughed at him. "I'm sure they'd let you have some, if you asked nicely."

Todd felt his skin p.r.i.c.kle. "That's not what I meant-"

"I know, I know. I'm sure they'll be a lot more concerned now with planting vegetables. Don't worry about it, Tex."

"Stop calling me that," he growled. "I'm from Wyoming."

"Would you rather I called you Wye?"

Todd kept looking ahead, squinting into the sunlight. "I'd rather you just called me Todd." Then he added defensively, "Okay, Professor? Or should I say, Little Miss Rock Star?"

She started to retort, but chuckled instead. "Okay, you made your point."

They left the water behind as they headed between gra.s.sy hills crowned with dark green live oaks. Iris urged Ren ahead a few steps to parallel Todd. "We should avoid Hayward, Newark, and Fremont as much as possible," she said, pointing to the wrinkled, flapping map spread on the saddle in front of her. "No telling how bad those cities have gotten. If we keep away from the Interstate, there are plenty of hills, ranches, and grazing land between here and the Altamont. Think we can make it there by nightfall?"

Todd laughed. "We didn't leave Stanford until after lunch. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon."

Iris looked down at the map again. Her dark eyes flicked back and forth, as if checking directions and distances. "I can drive it in an hour."

"You really are an academic type, aren't you? Horses don't go quite as fast as cars. And they're not nearly as comfortable." Todd finally felt rea.s.sured to be talking about a subject he knew. "Anyway, after about twenty miles or so, your b.u.t.t is going to feel sore enough to fall off. I'd just as soon keep that from happening." Todd suddenly realized what he had said and he clamped his lips down hard together. His ears burned.

"Gee, thanks," Iris said. "Are you willing to give me a ma.s.sage if I ache too much?"

It was Todd's turn to snort; but inwardly, he wondered if she really meant it.