“If we’re going to rule out a virus, that was their mistake.” Willing pointed to a break in the grid of cubbyholes: a tall, empty cabinet whose open glass door nonetheless sported a sophisticated lock. Inside, the sections were long and vertical.
The next floor down was an entertainment center, where three corpses were riveted by a cinema screen of a size that a maXfleX could now duplicate in any teenager’s bedroom. Below that, a lounge area, where several socializers seemed a bit too relaxed. The two floors thereafter were all residential units, each with a private sitting room and bath. These, too, had been ransacked, the dresser drawers yanked out, the mattresses flung. If the scavengers had been searching for valuables—jewelry, gold—Willing bet they scored handsomely. But they hadn’t bothered to take the cash, scattered willy-nilly around the bedrooms like discarded candy wrappers. He picked up a $100 bill, an original-issue greenback—too small to blow your nose in, not absorbent enough to clean your glasses. When the dollar was replaced by the dólar nuevo, like most people he’d been glad to see the back of the old currency, and hadn’t thought to save a sample as a memento. The distinctive flannel texture, the painfully pompous engraving, triggered an unexpected nostalgia. He pocketed the bill.
Including an enormous backup water tank, the bottom level was for storage. Looters had disregarded most of the contents: gluten-free pasta, running shoes, joint supports, and sea-salt truffles, one of whose assortments Willing opened; the glaucous chocolates were brittle and encrusted, like barnacles. Here also was the trash compactor. The dense, variegated cubes stacked beside it numbered under a dozen. This underground summer camp hadn’t lasted long.
On the way back up, Nollie spotted a glint amidst the discarded bottles in the wine cellar, and rescued a magnum of champagne, its foil intact. “Whole reason we came here,” she said. “I’m thirsty.”
When they emerged, Goog was grumpy, and, after their detailed lowdown, jealous. Before sliding into the driver’s seat, Nollie popped the cork. “Can’t remember the last time I needed a drink more,” she said, and took a slug.
“If you’re going to hit the bottle, you have to put the Myourea in automatic.”
“Willing, you’re such a pussy drag.” But she conceded, and once she bumped back to the mesmerizing straightaway on I-80 put her feet up. Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska played for atmosphere while they round-robined the warm champagne.
“So was that some nuclear bunker, then?” Goog asked.
“I checked the dates on the food,” Willing said. “It was all bought in ’33. So they were hiding from worse than nuclear holocaust: other people. Unfortunately for them, they let some of the other people inside.”
“Were they attacked, then?” Goog wondered. “Robbed?”
“Nah,” Willing said. “This is America. There was a gun cupboard. Better than even odds they killed each other.”
“Lived high beforehand, though,” Nollie said.
“They were rich,” Willing said. “And they were old.”
“Rich, obviously,” Nollie said. “But how can you tell if a corpse is old?”
“By their products thou shalt know them,” Willing intoned. “The exercise equipment is a generational giveaway. The bathrooms were stocked to the ceiling with anti-aging creams, tooth-whitening gel, and caffeine shampoo. Medication for hypertension, cholesterol, erectile dysfunction—and not only a vial or two. Hundreds. Wish I could have told Great Grand Man—we finally found out who cornered the national market on laxatives.”
“And your poor mother,” Nollie said to Goog, “hoarded Post-it notes.”
Rumors had long circulated about the “über-rich.” In folklore, these pampered fiscal vampires had retreated to fortified islands of sumptuous abandon, paddling in pools, propping piña coladas, while their countrymen starved. To discover that they hadn’t all escaped unscathed—that, if nothing else, they may not have escaped one another—was satisfying.
Attempting to cross into the Free State on I-80 seemed a little obvious. Opting for the road less traveled by was the whole reason they’d chosen a northerly entry point into Nevada in the first place: most subversive emigrants would take I-70 to Las Vegas. If the degree of fortification along the border varied, Immigration and Customs Enforcement would surely concentrate its discouragements near the renegade state’s largest and most famous city in its far south.
So Nollie exited the interstate for the secondary parallel roadway, US Route 58, which led into the town of Wendover, whose original municipal boundaries straddled the Utah-Nevada border. At first glance, Wendover seemed buzzier than similar communities en route. Hitherto, motels had been ramshackle, with bedraggled bedspreads and cracked, recycled plastic glasses. Here, more upscale hostelries looked new, with names like Pilgrim’s Rest, Pilgrim’s End, and Pilgrim’s Pillow. They didn’t seem to be referring to religious refugees in wide-brimmed hats. As their party drew farther into town, gaudy restaurants, casinos, and shops proliferated: The Turncoat Inn, The Deserter Sands, and Traitor Joe’s. Multiple establishments made droll allusions to what visitors like Willing most feared: Fission Chips, or Chip Off Ye Olde Block. The Last Chance Bar advertised concoctions christened Brain Freeze and Stroke in a Glass.
Goog mewled that he was famished. They all were.
“What about his hands?” Willing asked his great-aunt.
“This town is so barmy,” she said, “nobody’s going to look twice at duct tape.” Goog’s titular bondage was already loose enough to qualify as a bracelet, and Willing had seen him more than once shove the stretched bangle back on.
So they stopped at a family restaurant called Final Feast. In reception, a five-year-old was whooping it up in a replica of an electric chair, which gyrated and vibrated and shot real sparks. The menu was designed around the last meals requested by inmates on death row. The John Allen Muhammad: chicken with red sauce and strawberry cake. The John Wayne Gacy came with KFC (Korean Fried Chicken) and shrimp. Or you could choose lighter fare: the John William Elliot was a cup of hot tea and six chocolate chip cookies; the James Rexford Powell, one pot of coffee.
“This is completely tasteless,” Nollie said, surveying the entrees.
“How can you tell without ordering something?” Goog said. She rolled her eyes.
“I’m going for the Ron Scott Shamburger,” Willing determined: nachos with chili, jalapeños, picante sauce, grilled onions, and tacos. “This guy cut out in style.”
“Howdy!” Like her coworkers, their waitress was kitted out like a prison guard, with a shiny badge on her breast that said BETSY. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll start with a Lethal Injection,” Goog said.
“Great choice!” Betsy exclaimed, though the brandy, moonshine, and grenadine drink sounded vile. After taking the rest of their order, she asked companionably, “You folks defectors?”
“If we were,” Nollie said, looking at the girl askance, “why would we tell you?”
“Only making conversation, honey. Don’t you notice,” Betsy directed to the men, “how these old dears tend to get paranoid?”
“Is there any good reason to be paranoid?” Willing asked.
“I know what you’re asking, sweetie,” Betsy said. “It’s what you all want to know. But the crossers never come back. Make of that what you want. We do get repeat customers, but it’s mostly folks who got cold feet at the last minute. Sometimes puts them in a right pickle, ’cause they’ll have used up the reserves on their chip in a big casino blowout. You see them on the street, panhandling for chip transfers to get back home.”