Reinski nodded. He didn't seem to have his voice back yet.

"My people are sworn to obey me," Bayclock continued. "Don't make me take the next step to demonstrate this to the people of Albuquerque." He narrowed his eyes and watched Reinski closely.

Reinski finally spoke. His voice shook as he tried to keep his voice from cracking. "What-what are you asking me to do?"

Bayclock allowed himself to relax imperceptibly. "Publicly throw your support behind me when I announce martial law."

"When will that be?"

"Immediately."

"Do I have a choice?"

Bayclock shook his head. "No, we we don't." don't."

Chapter 48.

The Visitor's Center was closed, leaving only two abandoned cars in the parking lot. Heather tried to lead Connor to the spectacular overlook on the rim of the Grand Canyon, but he picked up a rust-colored rock and smashed a window of the deserted museum building. "We didn't come all this way not to look at the exhibits," he said.

No alarms rang, no park rangers came running. Heather didn't think Connor had any real interest in the museum; he just seemed to enjoy breaking in. That was just like him. She shrugged and let him have his fun. What did it matter, anyway? Satisfied, Connor followed her to the overlook.

It had taken them a week on foot to reach the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. When Heather had come here before with her old boyfriend Derek, they drove up, stayed in one of the lodges, and paid little attention to the surrounding scenery. Hiking in with Connor, though, gave her a greater appreciation as antic.i.p.ation built mile after mile. Now she had time to inspect outcroppings, time to absorb the vastness of the landscape.

The Grand Canyon looked so spectacular that she couldn't comprehend the vastness. Her mind swelled with details-jagged mesas, bands of color ranging from ochre, tan, vermillion, and scarlet. Shadows carried orange tinges deep in the creva.s.ses. The wind whipping up and over the rim enhanced the isolation.

Coming in, they had walked along the rim trail, stopping at every viewpoint, relaxing, taking their time. They had no agenda, no reservations, no jobs to get back to. Heather felt invigorated, a new person.

They heard no screaming children, no yelling parents, no arguing tourists, no sightseeing planes buzzing along the rim. The sky was as deep blue as a Christmas tree ornament. In front of her, the canyon dropped a mile like the gulf between the old ways and the new world that would eventually emerge in the aftermath of the petroplague. Heather Dixon was on the right side of that chasm.

After standing there for a moment, Connor grabbed her from behind, pulling her against him as he wrapped his arms around her waist. When he nuzzled his chin against her shoulder, Heather squirmed from his scratchy beard stubble, then giggled.

He fluttered his fingers against her pants pockets, then crept slowly down her hips and across her abdomen. A sudden, startling shiver traveled like a ricochet up her spine, and she wiggled her b.u.t.tocks back against the hardness in his groin.

Connor rubbed his hand against her crotch, pushing his fingers against the denim. His touch sent a warm glow through her. He ran his fingernail in a quick tik-tik-tik tik-tik-tik up the length of her zipper, teasing her. up the length of her zipper, teasing her.

Heather squirmed away, blinking in the bright sun and looking at the guard rails in front of her. "If you get any hornier, we'll fall off the edge."

Connor shrugged, grinning at her with his disarming "good old boy" expression. "It's a long fall. We'd still have time for a quickie before we hit bottom."

"I'd rather find a place in the shade."

"Good idea."

The day Connor appeared on her doorstep, turmoil had seethed inside her. She knew what the stronger part of her wanted, but she was also afraid of being rejected, afraid of what might happen with this total stranger. Maybe that's why she had banished him to the back yard.

He had his shirt off when she appeared at the door; water sprayed from the hose, soaking the ground. He held his shirt balled in one hand.

She motioned him in, trying to sound upset. "You're wasting water. Turn that off and come inside."

With the electricity out, Connor had no light in the bathroom. He left the door ajar as he shucked his pants. Heather went into the kitchen, but soon she found herself drawn back to the partially open bathroom door.

The gap looked wider, as if Connor had opened it a bit more. She could see only dim shapes, then a flash of bare skin as he slipped into the shower. He turned and seemed to look directly at her before ducking behind the cloth shower curtain.

Heather was sick and tired of being afraid. She had already begun working the b.u.t.tons on her blouse. She undid her bra. She stepped out of her jeans, listening to him splashing water and gasping in the cold. She would never have done anything like this before-and that was exactly why she insisted on doing it now.

Heather stood naked in the doorway. She knew she had a good figure, and she probably looked best without any clothes on, since she had found no fashion that didn't make her look c.u.mbersome. Connor watched her through a gap in the shower curtain. He didn't say anything.

Moving slowly, she left the door open behind her and walked to the shower, peeled the shower curtain back, and stared at him. She smiled. He looked lean and well-muscled-and erect.

She stepped into the tub. Gooseb.u.mps crawled over her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to block the cold water. Connor twisted the shower head to deflect the spray against the tiled wall, leaving only a misty splash in the air. "You'll get used to it in a minute. If you stay in long enough, that is." He was staring at her. "I think you will."

"You don't seem surprised."

Connor shrugged. He still hadn't moved to touch her. "I thought you might do something like this. I could see it in your eyes."

Heather looked up at him, trying not to shiver. "Is that why you asked for a shower?"

Connor shook his head. Water droplets fell from his s.h.a.ggy blond hair. "No, but I can roll with the changes and think on my feet."

The cornball line came out of her mouth before she could stop herself. "But can you think in bed? bed?" Heather tried to make her voice sultry, but the cold water dripping off the tip of her nose ruined the effect.

"I won't be too concerned about thinking when I get you in bed." Before she could say anything, Connor bent down and took one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked hard. She gasped, partly in surprise and partly in pleasure, then moaned as he slid his fingers between her legs.

The shower water sprayed off the wall, splattering down their bodies, but Heather stopped noticing the temperature . . . .

Now, standing on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, Heather turned and looked at the small village that had once lived off the tourist trade. The place was a ghost town. Most of the employees had probably tried to get back to "civilization." None of them would want to be stranded with no way back to the cities.

Connor stroked her from behind. "Let's forget about finding a spot in the shade," he said. "I'm tired of sleeping on the ground. Let's get a room instead." He gestured to the imposing, posh Bright Angel Lodge farther up the rim trail. "We can get one of the penthouses!"

Heather had never done that before. Never anything nice. It always seemed too extravagant. "Yeah, they might have a room or two available." She grinned at him. "All right, we'll get something special."

"About time, if you ask me." Connor's face became self-righteous. "All my life I've been watching everybody else get the things I deserve. I'm sick of it."

Heather loaded the pistol at her hip. Connor shifted the long rifle on his back. "Let's go," he said.

Hand in hand, they walked toward the Bright Angel Lodge.

Chapter 49.

Air Force security policemen spread up and down the street in a show of force. On horseback, an officer shouted orders like a cavalry commander. Uniformed men and women fanned out, securing the intersection. Two elite MPs used the b.u.t.ts of their rifles to knock in the gla.s.s door of an office building, then climbed three stories to position themselves on the roof. They sprawled out, covering the area with their rifles.

Forced into the streets by military teams pounding on doors, civilians gathered in the intersection. Some rubbed their eyes out in the open for the first time in days; some protested as they were herded to the center of the street. The crowd remained quiet except for a few small children crying and three teenagers protesting about being treated like animals. It took only fifteen minutes, but over 500 people filled the intersection.

Down the street, General Bayclock watched the a.s.sembly from atop his own horse. Five security policemen surrounded him, guarding against malcontents and a.s.sa.s.sination attempts. It was the fourth such gathering he had witnessed, and the twentieth conducted since the orders declaring martial law throughout the greater Albuquerque area.

In the center of the crowd a master sergeant stood on several overturned crates stenciled with the words "Hatch Green Chiles." According to the schedule, down on Central Avenue another enlisted man would be making similar p.r.o.nouncements.

The sergeant raised his arms for quiet, then recited the familiar speech. "Under martial law, absolutely no breach of security will be tolerated. Without radio or TV, we don't have the means to broadcast this order to the public, so everyone needs to make darn sure their neighbors get the word. At the moment we are unable to print this information for wide distribution.

"Until such time as that becomes feasible, every day at-" The sergeant looked down at a sheet of paper listing intersections and times, "thirteen thirty, that's one thirty in the afternoon, we will hold announcements right here in this intersection. We will also distribute food, water, and medical supplies for those in need. But listen carefully-because of the large number of people under our protection, we will have only one hour to accomplish these tasks."

A low rumble ran through the crowd. The sergeant held up a hand. "Just a minute-I'm not finished!"

When the crowd did not immediately fall silent, one of the security officers fired his rifle up in the air. The sergeant looked around, then continued.

"Several new laws have been established. The most important is that a curfew will be in place from sundown to sunup. Because we have no electrical power in the city, it is difficult to provide protection for everyone at night. By order of President Mayeaux, Brigadier General Bayclock, the base commander of Kirtland, has a.s.sumed command during this interim period of martial law. Mayor Reinski fully endorses these measures and strongly encourages all citizens to cooperate."

The master sergeant looked over the crowd. "We're here to help you. Until things return to working order, we're all in this together, and we have to do the best we can."

Satisfied that the exchange was under control, General Bayclock pulled back on the reins of his horse. The gelding backed up a few paces, then wheeled around.

Bayclock faced Mayor Reinski, who quietly watched the exchange. "The next few days are going to be critical-we've got to use an iron hand."

The young mayor seemed to have lost weight; his eyes were red, encircled by dark rings. Reinski did not respond.

Bayclock snorted, half inclined to ignore the mayor, but he realized the importance of appearances, even during times of martial law. "I'm heading back to the base, moving my headquarters to the more secure Manzano mountain complex, and I advise you to come with me. Not everyone agrees with what we're doing, and I won't be able to protect you unless you're under my charge. I have doubled security at the base."

Reinski spoke in a low voice. "Aren't you going a bit overboard, General?"

Anger flashed through Bayclock's body like a snapped rubber band. "Maybe you don't remember your history, Mr. Mayor, but the most effective military bastions live as a symbol of threat, especially in times like these. Remember the Bastille."

Reinski merely pressed his lips together. The sounds of the uneasy crowd caused Bayclock to twist around in his saddle. When the security policemen shoved several people to the ground, loud shouts erupted. One man reached up, flailing to protect himself. Above the shouting, the master sergeant waved his arms and tried to bring the crowd under control. Slowly the people at the edge of the crowd started to disperse, defusing a potential riot.

Bayclock turned back to Reinski. "This is going to have to continue until we make an example of someone. These people have to get it through their heads them just how serious we are."

Chapter 50.

Still filled with h.e.l.lfire-and-d.a.m.nation from the previous night's rally and the march up the abandoned freeway, Jake Torgens and the mob arrived at the Oilstar refinery demanding vengeance-but the guards had already abandoned the front gate of the refinery complex.

Jake glared through the dusty gla.s.s of the empty guard shack. One of the windows had fallen in, and only a metal-springed skeleton of a chair waited to greet them. Jake was disappointed to meet no resistance.

Many times in the past, the Oilstar security officers had calmly met them at the fences, while Jake and his protesters engaged in "nonviolent civil disobedience"-all perfectly mannered, like a high tea.

But they had vowed not to stop at mere pa.s.sive resistance this time. Civilized protests were for normal times-not when the country was falling apart. From now on there would be no armbands signalling which demonstrators wanted to be arrested, no waving placards in front of TV cameras. This wasn't a show; it was survival.

"Inside!" Jake waved his arm forward like a commander ordering his troops. "This place is ours now!" He clutched the chain-link fence as others flowed past carrying sticks and crowbars. He had pulled most of the crowd from angry people on the streets, the ones who wanted to strike out because they had already lost their future. It would solve nothing, but at least the symbol of evil would be removed.

Jake raised his fist in the air. The gesture rippled through the crowd, a mark of solidarity. Jake Torgens could have stopped the entire petroplague disaster from happening if he had taken extreme measures in the first place. It was his greatest failure.

He had been at the Oilstar town meeting, one of the loudest voices opposed to the spraying of Prometheus. He had managed to get a temporary restraining order from Judge Steinberg-and with his network Jake could have filed appeal after appeal to stall the cursed spraying forever. He had held the court order in his own hands while his people stormed the Oilstar pier, waving it and demanding that the helicopter land and obey the law. The Law! Law! But the helicopter had sprayed the deadly microbe anyway. But the helicopter had sprayed the deadly microbe anyway.

Now the whole planet was paying for it.

Curses erupted around him. Jake drew in a monumental breath and shouted, "Burn Oilstar to the ground!"

The refinery complex was a nightmare of fractionating towers, piping, valves, ladders, and catwalks. Small white Cushman carts sat abandoned next to enormous metal contraptions. The admin building and research facilities stood in the center of the complex, like an oasis surrounded by the industrial no-man's-land.

Huge natural gas, crude oil, and gasoline storage tanks rested on the sides of the hills, great metal reservoirs closed off by metal caps. No doubt some of them still held viable fuel-it would have been a precious commodity if the petroplague continued to devour only octane, but with other long-chain polymers falling to pieces, no engine culd still function even if it did have uncontaminated fuel.

But the gas could still burn. Oh yes Oh yes, Jake thought, it would still burn. it would still burn.

Inside the bioremediation wing of the Oilstar complex, Mitch Stone stared helplessly at the scrawled notes in front of him. He had used a metal bar to break open the locked drawers of Alex Kramer's desk, ransacking the original lab books and notes the microbiologist had left behind. The official data and quarterly reports had already been copied and sent to the plague research centers around the country, but there had to be more. Mitch went straight to the source. There had to be more!

"Dammit, Alex! Are you doing this to me on purpose?"

Mitch stared at the handwritten comments. Kramer's computer-nothing but warped circuit boards, wires, and gla.s.s CRT-sat on the desk. The diskettes lay dissolved in unrecognizable piles. But Mitch knew that the old-timer kept actual logbooks. Mitch had teased Alex about it before, but now he blessed the old man for his prehistoric ways.

As he flipped through the pages and stared at the data, despair poured through him. He held the lined paper up to the light from the window. The other pane in Alex's office had fallen out, dropping three stories to shatter on the ground below. Wind whistled into the room.

Emma Branson paced in front of the desk, waiting for him to answer her. "Stone, are you even more incompetent than I thought? We've got to give them something! You were involved in this from square one, don't you remember anything?"

Helpless, Mitch wanted to shrug and make some excuse, but Branson looked ready to claw his eyes out. She would see right through any patronizing explanations. "I was involved with it, but . . . but I worked mainly on the management end of things. I attended the meetings and took care of public relations. Alex was the one doing the work!" He swallowed, realizing how stupid he sounded. He ran a hand through his itchy hair; he hadn't had a trim in over a month.

"That's not the way you made it appear in your reports," Branson said with ice in her voice.

Mitch averted his eyes and looked again at the scrawled data. It took a while, but once he recognized the pattern, he felt too sick and embarra.s.sed even to point it out to Emma Branson.

"Well, what is it?" she demanded.

"Uh, it appears that Dr. Kramer faked his data. He wrote incorrect results in his notebooks."

"Are you sure?" she said.