Fade Out (65 page)

‘Maybe… but you have a habit of being right.' Connors made a rapid mental calculation. ‘Arnold, that means that at eight twenty-five there won't be any electricity anywhere.'

‘Not any current electricity, no…'

‘Jesus Christ…' Connors thought back to one of the academic conversations he'd overheard in the canteen. Some of the research group had been discussing what could happen if the world was suddenly deprived of electric power. What was it Page had said – 80 per cent
of the world's population might not survive the next six months? Page's morbid delight in bad news may have led him to exaggerate. There was a chance that the bulk of the well-drilled Red Chinese would – and two-thirds of India wouldn't notice the difference. Maybe he meant 80 per cent of the Western world…

One of the diesels climbed noisily up on to the Ridge with a load of supplies. Connors watched it cross the plateau towards Rockville. They had decided to break up the base camp and relocate everything on the Ridge. It had the virtue of being several miles off the highway, heavily fenced in, and isolated. The fence would have to be repaired, but it would be a good place to shelter if things got tough. Harris and Cameron had gone out to round up the flare parties Connors had sent racing for cover, and Wedderkind had suggested they should try to get the rest of the research group back from Glasgow AFB.

Connors didn't really have a clear idea of what he was going to do next, but he thought it would be better for everyone if he sounded decisive. They would have to make some kind of coherent plan to assist the people in the immediate area. They couldn't go scudding around forever in their converted trucks pretending that the rest of the world didn't exist. They would need more fuel, and an assured supply of starting cartridges for the diesels. They would have to start sharing the problems. And the first was how to stay alive this winter…

As if reading his thoughts, Wedderkind said, ‘We're lucky. We have a coherent, organized unit with a high proportion of technological and scientific skills.'

And we're also armed to the teeth…

‘I think some of them want to try and get to their families,'said Connors.

‘Who doesn't?' said Wedderkind. ‘But if we split up none of us will make it. The worst will be over by the end of the winter.'

‘Is it going to be as bad as I think it is?' asked Connors.

‘It could be,' said Wedderkind. ‘Especially in and around the cities. It depends on how much people are prepared to help each other.'

Connors gazed at the rolling wheatfields west of the dry riverbed. The fallow strips had now been sown with winter wheat. When it ripened, a lot of it would have to be cut by hand. Next year, the grains would be like gold dust.

He wondered if he would ever see Washington again. And Charly. He tried to imagine what it would be like there now. Even if her parents could get their money out of the bank, it wouldn't get them very far.

‘What do you think Crusoe's going to grow into, Arnold?'

‘Bob, there's no way to answer that. The possibilities are enormous. Think of the acorn that grows into an oak – or the caterpillar that becomes a butterfly. Crusoe could be the seed of a city, or a whole civilization.'

‘Okay, let's try another question. Is this going to be the end of the world?'

‘Maybe as we know it,' said Wedderkind. ‘But on the other hand, you could say it was the beginning of a
new
one. And with such possibilities! There are huge areas of technology left to us. We have steam, diesels, gas turbines, water, air, the sun. Admittedly you won't be able to turn on your quadraphonic hi-fi, but people will learn to
make
music. People don't seem to realize that most of the world's greatest music, art, literature, architecture were all completed before the age of electricity. Did they need electricity to build Versailles? St Peter's? The pyramids? Did they need a microphone to sing Handel's
Messiah!
Would Beethoven have achieved more with a hearing aid? Did Michelangelo need floodlights to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling?'

‘No,' said Connors. ‘But don't try and kid me, Arnold. We're not about to enter some Golden Age. It's going to be goddamned awful.'

‘For a while, perhaps. But there was nothing any of us could have done to stop this happening. You must accept it as part of the plan.'

‘I'm glad to hear there is one – even if it is too big for me to understand. What is it you think we have to do?'

‘Do? Why – what Man has always done. Start all over again of course!'

Behind them, the rim of the sun cut into the distant line of mountains. Tonight, there would be a new darkness over the land. Tomorrow, the sound of the human voice would only reach as far as the wind would carry it. They walked down from the Ridge in silence.

Connors considered his position. If people were prepared to recognize the letters of authority the President had given him, he would be a hot property. If they didn't, he might end his career head down in a Montana snowdrift. Connors decided it might be a good idea to learn how to skin rabbits. He began to laugh.

‘What's the matter?' asked Wedderkind.

‘We think we've got troubles,' said Connors. ‘I just suddenly remembered that Chris Matson and Admiral Garrison are stuck in the middle of Russia.' He grinned broadly. ‘I hope they like beetroot soup.'

The idea kept them both laughing all the way to the edge of the plateau. As they reached the path down to Rockville, Connors looked back at Crusoe. He was now a jet-black silhouette against the darkening sky. Perhaps by the spring, the steps he had thrust out might start to lead somewhere.

Connors walked down the path to the camp with Wedderkind. Beyond the shattered field lab he could see some of the men cutting down trees to make fires.

Patrick Tilley
was born in Essex in 1928, but spent his formative years in the border counties of Northumbria and Cumbria. After studying art at King's College, University of Durham, he came to London in 1955 and rapidly established himself as one of Britain's leading graphic designers. He began writing part-time in 1959.

In 1968 he gave up design altogether in favour of a new career as a film scriptwriter. Work on several major British-based productions was followed by writing assignments in New York and Hollywood. His books have been translated into several languages, and have achieved cult-novel status.

Discover books by Patrick Tilley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/PatrickTilley

Fade Out
Mission
The Amtrak Wars: Cloud Warrior
The Amtrak Wars: First Family
The Amtrak Wars: Iron Master

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain 1975 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

Copyright © 1975 Patrick Tilley

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eISBN: 9781448210886

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