Tomorrow Happens (22 page)

". . . for have we not
all
heard the calling draw of our Lord, beckoning us toward him? Though the Devil in each of us strives to mask the call, veiling its meaning in feigned promises and blasphemies, surely any of you must know that the true source, the true focus of all glory, can only be the ancient hills of Jerusalem!"

On his way to the warehouse where he worked, Josh paused to watch, shading his eyes against the western glare. The preacher's audience didn't seem exactly pleased—especially when he asked for donations to the Temple of the Rapture. Workers began peeling away, shaking their heads and muttering curses.

"Bloody, stinkin' Jerusalite . . ."

A second citizen snorted derisively, "Can't even make up their minds what part o' Jerusalem they're talkin' about. I hear half th' city's in ruins, from all the 'temples' they're building!"

Josh took their desultory tolerance as a good sign. Two years ago, the crowd might have killed the Jerusalite preacher—strung him from one of the broken lamp-posts in this once thoroughly Mormon town. When the craziness peaked, there had been hanging bodies in every city on Earth.

The black-coated stranger waved his arms, hoarsely shouting denunciations of the devil. Flexing his knees and making the wooden crate squeak ominously, he called down his version of the Word on the ears of the heathen.

". . . Where have we come, after nearly a decade of visions? Confused to the inner core of our beings, by the dreams haunting every man, woman, and child on this globe? Yes, I know the leaders of the many branches your fractured church have told you that the visions come from the 'Angel Moroni.' Many of these sects call for the building of a 'temple' in that mosquito-infested Missouri swamp they call . . ."

His next words were drowned out by a muttered growl. The preacher only shouted louder to be heard.

"But these are only interpretations . . . delusions! Slowly, we have learned that dreams, all by themselves, cannot give the answer. For we color the message with the paints of our inner desires. We are receiving a message from Heaven—all of us have for years—but man, incorrigible, warps the images with foolish superstitions he has been taught to believe . . ."

The dour, dark-clothed citizens of St. George shifted their feet in tired anger. A few youths began searching the litter-strewn road for rocks. Josh wondered if the preacher's yellow Speaker's Permit—pinned crookedly to his shabby lapel—would be much use if he continued the harangue any longer.

Josh shifted his small bag of groceries and began edging his way around the crowd.

"No!" the preacher shouted. "We cannot rely on local, parochial viewpoints! The visions can only be interpreted in terms of the given word of the Lord . . . found only in the one book, the only book . . ."

Passing around the corner of a gray, cinderblock building, Josh felt relieved as the street-corner harangue faded. He was not anxious to witness local folks—mostly good people, he had found—revert to pre-Truce ways, giving the bible-thumper the martyrdom he seemed to be asking for. Half a block away he spotted a squad of Guardsmen hurrying in the opposite direction. Good. St. George might yet be spared a lynching.

Without much caring, Josh wondered how the tactless Jerusalite had managed to make it so far into Saints country alive. Perhaps people were just tired of the frenzy.

On the other hand, as the dreams grew daily in frequency and strength, maybe people were
more
willing to listen to alternatives—to heed other interpretations than those offered by their religious leaders—just in case.

Josh stopped at the federal-run Gentiles' Store, a block from the warehouse. He put down the bag of groceries, leafed forlornly through his ration book, hoping there would be one liquor coupon left, and sighed. Only starches. Fortunately, it was near the end of the month. He hefted the bag again, making the next block in good time.

The warehouse was a gray concrete building, windowless and massive . . . fireproof and mob-resistant. That had been important when he and Carl chose the place. A young Guard trooper stood at the steel door, assault rifle slung over a shoulder. He smiled as Josh approached, offering a clipboard for him to sign.

"Hello, Mr. Agate. Any luck finding supplies?"

"Hi, Jimmy. Yes, sort of. At least we'll eat till our orders come through."

"I'm sure it'll be soon. They say the northeast road opened up this morning."

"Hey, that's great news!"

It was, indeed. Every night—when he wasn't dreaming of the Imminence like everybody else—Josh found himself having more pleasant visions of normality in Minnesota, of home and wet lakes and white, pure snow. He prayed for orders that would take him east again.

"Here's something I managed to get in trade for a few extra sugar coupons, Jimmy." From the bag Josh pulled a box of powdered milk. "Maggie can use it for the baby."

The young soldier shifted awkwardly, as if uncertain he should accept. Then he took the box. "Gosh, Mr. Agate . . ."

"Think nothing of it. We all do what we can." Josh turned a key in the lock and entered through the massive door.

"I was watching on the outside monitor," Carl told him as he put the bag down by the kitchen area. "You didn't have to do that, you know. We could have used the sugar. Jimmy's due to be rotated soon. The next guard might have a sweet tooth."

Josh shrugged. "Drop it."

He wet a towel from the faucet and pressed the cool dampness against his neck.

Carl watched him. "So what's eating you?" "Nothing."

"Come on. Something's bugging you. You're a regular sack of joy, today."

Josh stepped around his partner to collapse in the chair by his desk. "Last night I had an intense one. The images were placid—you know, the Garden of Brahma kind."

"Hm, peaceful."

"Yeah. But there's a Jerusalite on the street, shouting fire and brimstone. I can feel the words in my skull, like wasp eggs, I'll probably dream about the Temple of the Rapture tonight—tribulation and curtains of fire!" He finished with mimicry of a proselyte's warble.

Carl looked back at him blankly, missing even the weak joke. Josh turned to leaf through the papers on his desk.

"What're you looking for?" Carl asked.

Josh noticed what he was doing and stopped. "Jimmy said the road's open again. Hoping I got mail."

"There was a delivery. Nothing from your folks, though."

Josh nodded, resignedly. Personal mail was still a shambles. "Anything for me from Washington?"

Carl's big, tarsier-like eyes squinted. "You mean personally? What you expecting? A slot on a Greeter Committee? Maybe a docket on a Seeker Ship? Two chances of that ever happening—fat, and slim!"

Carl chortled. His own jokes he inevitably got.

Josh laid his chin in a hand. Of course Carl was right. Both the feds and the UN Emergency Agency had already staffed all the official Contingency Groups. There wouldn't be any more positions available for the duration. He might as well never have applied. Stuck out here in a dead-end job, a
depressing
job, getting ready to spend the next umpteen years of his life taking care of neomorts.

At least it's a job
, Josh reminded himself.

"So there wasn't any mail," he said heavily.

"Did I say that? I just said there wasn't anything special for you.

"We
did get some mail, though," Carl sat on the edge of the desk and flipped a big manila envelope over. It landed with a smacking sound, finishing in a dull clunk. Josh noticed that the envelope had been re-used. Things must be bad even in Washington.

Probably more damn paperwork about Protecting the Rights of the Brain-Living Impaired
, he thought. Ignoring the envelope for the moment, he spoke pensively.

"You know, there are still some places with good jobs for biophysiologists. I could go down to San Diego and join the folks talking to dolphins . . . or L.A. and join the Awaiters. I hear they'll take anyone with a theory about what little green men will want to eat."

Carl tapped the envelope. "Quit being an ass. Open it."

Josh sighed and ripped open the wax seal. He emptied the package onto his desk.

There was a letter—on fresh stationery—from the Department of Health, addressed to him. He tossed it aside for the moment. It was only Orders, after all.

A fresh ration book was the next thing he found. Dated from the first of the next month, its magenta border signified rather high priority and large quantities, but Josh knew better than to think that meant good news. When the government turned generous, it was time to count your fingers and toes.

There were other documents, including a blue federal transit pass, countersigned by the governors of California and Utah, allowing him, by name, to transport and carry across state lines two dozen "refugees" who were legally unable to speak for themselves, along with five drivers and five attendants to accompany and care for the so-called "neomorts."

"It came this morning," Carl said. "I'm to stay here and prepare for the new arrivals. So I guess you won the draw."

Josh snorted. Won, indeed. He had won the right to leave dour, depressing St. George, only to step right into the craziest part of a country teetering on the edge of insanity.

"The governor of California is delighted to get rid of the neomorts," Carl went on. "He's providing five reconditioned RVs to carry them and the volunteer attendants. You'll get an escort to the state line— you can pick your point of egress, Blythe, Needles, or Yuma, then swing north and bring the caravan here."

Josh looked up. "I can't leave through Reno or Bishop?"

"Nope. Governor wants you out of the state as soon as possible. In fact, you're to avoid those routes on the way in, as well . . . to keep 'rumors' from spreading."

"Great," Josh said sourly. "I can choose between radiation, the weird zones, or Indian Nation! Are you sure you wouldn't rather just hold onto this ration book. I probably won't get to get much use out of it."

Carl made a quick smile, as if to show that he could appreciate a joke as well as the next guy. "Ha ha. Just don't lose those passes. And hold onto the gold for as long as you can."

"Gold?"

"In the envelope. In case you go by the Indian Nation route. They let some convoys buy their way through, to pick up hard cash. There are still plenty of things they want to buy to outfit that 'great kiva' they're building down there."

Josh hardly heard him. He shook the reinforced envelope . . . and suddenly three large golden coins rolled out, landing heavily on the table.

"Son of a bitch!" Josh breathed as he looked at the shiny round disks, gleaming and untarnishable. He paid no heed as Carl talked on. Josh looked at the way light glowed along the ridges, grooves, and highlights of the golden coins. Two Jesse Jackson twenties and a great big fifty-dollar piece. The Second White House, on the reverse of that coin, seemed surrounded by a faint glow. He turned it over. An aura gleamed about the face of Rush Limbaugh, leaving no room for ears.

It wasn't the value of the coins, but something in their symbolism that had Josh all but hypnotized. Something about them that filled him with a shivering sense not unlike déjà vu . . . as if there were meaning in the images that he could almost interpret. It felt much like the intimations that almost every human alive had felt in sleep for most of a decade—an impression that somebody or something was on its way. When it arrived, it would change everything, forever.

Josh shook himself free of the power of the reflections, just as he had fought the dreams that the Awaiters called "the Star Message," the Krishnans called the "drum of Shiva," and that the Jerusalites described as "the fringe of the Robe of the Holy Spirit."

". . . There'll be volunteer nurses waiting in LA to help with the move," Carl was saying. "Some of 'em were with the Neomorts from the beginning, ever since the Western Institute began experiments with the brain-dead. The drivers were selected from people willing to give anything to get out of California."

"When do I leave?" Josh asked, shaking away the last shreds of the brief trance.

"Tonight." Carl rose to his feet. "The Jeep's already loaded with 60 gallons of gas. You can join a convoy, if you like, or strike out on your own. You'll make better time if you do. Anyway, you're to be out of town by morning."

Josh sighed. "I don't suppose anyone thought of sending me by air."

Carl laughed. "The boy never does stop dreaming about his own importance! Do you know what a certified, mind-stable pilot charges these days? My lad, hubris will be your undoing yet!"

Josh nodded. But he knew, tonight he would dream of being important enough to be allowed to fly.

And maybe he would also dream of two dozen quiet—but not inert—bodies, waiting in Los Angeles—for him to be their Moses and deliver them to this promised land. Bodies, and brains that performed in ways that no human mind had ever performed before.

He looked about the huge empty warehouse, where the neomorts would reside through the emergency—or presumably until their autonomic systems simply stopped functioning.

The slabs lay empty, waiting.

Josh felt a queer shiver.

Fifty miles south of St. George, on the highway leading toward the city that had once been named Phoenix, Josh pulled over to the side of the road and got out to inspect a washout. A recent flood had torn a rather large gouge out of the asphalt. It cut right across the road. Apparently quite recently, since none of the intermittent convoys had performed even makeshift repairs.

It didn't look like too much for his Jeep to handle. But there was another barrier in the way. Wedged tightly at an angle with a broken axle was a big, garishly-painted panel truck.

Josh felt his hand go to the revolver at his hip. He chided himself for a brief paranoia. After all, southern Utah was supposed to be pacified after Operation Canyonlands Cleanup, two years ago.

Still, he moved carefully and quietly around the van, as he looked around carefully for signs of the former occupants.