The Last Science Fiction Writer Read online

  Crap. He was throwing this in my lap again. Yet, I had to admit to myself, he had a point. This was a mystery, and a pretty good one at that. And there had to be better things to do on a Friday night than doze through another stupid horror movie…

  “Maybe. But how do we get down there?” I wasn’t looking forward to hopping on my ten-speed and peddling all the way out to Narragansett Point. Not at night, and not for ten miles.

  “You’ve got your learner’s permit, right?” Ted asked, and I nodded. “Well, then, all we need are the wheels.”

  It took a second for me to realize what he was implying. “Oh, no,” I said. “Not on your life…”

  But it wasn’t his life that he was willing to put on the line. Just mine.

  Steve was already home by the time Ted and I got back to my house. I wasn’t surprised; my brother called in sick so often, his boss at Speed-E-Mart probably thought he had tuberculosis. Steve’s second-hand ’92 Mustang was in the driveway; a couple of his buddies had come over, but they’d remembered to leave their cars on the street so Mom would have a place to park. Which was fortunate, because it made what I was about to do that much easier.

  Ted and I came in through the kitchen door, careful not to slam it behind us. Not that Steve would have heard the door shut; from the basement, I could hear the sullen back-beat of my brother’s stereo thudding against the linoleum. There was a half-finished TV dinner on the kitchen table and Budweiser cans in the garbage; Steve was still underage, but that didn’t stop him from swiping a six-pack or two from work. He might get rid of them before Mom came home, or maybe not. Ever since he’d moved into the basement, Steve had come to treat the house where we’d grown up more like a hangout than a home.

  Once again, I wondered why Mom hadn’t told him to find his own place. Perhaps she was still hoping that he’d eventually clean up his act; more likely, she loved her older son too much to throw him out. Not for the first time, though, I found myself wishing that she would.

  Ted said nothing. He’d been over to my house enough times to know that my family had gone seriously downhill since Dad died. And with two overage party animals for parents, his own home life wasn’t that much better. So he quietly waited while I looked around. Sure enough, Steve had tossed his black leather jacket on the living room couch. I checked the pockets. Just as I figured, there were his car keys. All I had to do was take them, and…

  No. I couldn’t do that. My brother was a deadbeat, but he was still my brother. Leaving the keys where I found them, I told Ted to wait outside, then I went down to the basement.

  The stereo was deafening: Guns ’n Roses, with Axel Rose screaming at the top of his lungs. Steve had a thing for ’90s headbanger stuff: music by the dumb, for the dumb, so that the dumb wouldn’t perish from the face of the earth. The cellar door was shut, but I could smell the pot smoke even before I was halfway down the stairs. Why these idiots couldn’t open a window and put a towel against the bottom of the door was beyond me. I knocked twice, waited a second, then let myself in.

  Steve sat cross-legged on the mattress he’d hauled down from what used to be his bedroom, a plastic tray he’d swiped from a shopping mall food court in his lap. His two cronies were slumped in the busted-out chairs he’d taken from the junk heap Mr. Morton had left behind; they were watching him clean the seeds and stems from the pound of marijuana he’d just acquired from his supplier, perhaps hoping to snag a joint or two before Steve divided the motherlode into half-ounce Baggies that he’d sell on the street. The old Sony TV my brother had “found” somewhere was on, a rerun of Jeopardy ignored by high-school dropouts who couldn’t have supplied the question to American History for $200 (“He wrote the Declaration of Independence”) if a gun was pointed to their heads. The nude girlfriends of millionaire rock stars glowered at me from posters taped to the cement walls, as beautiful as the distant galaxies and just as untouchable.

  Everyone made a nervous jerk when I opened the door, and relaxed when they saw that it was only me. “Oh, it’s you,” Steve muttered. “What d’ya want?”

  “Can I borrow your car?” My voice came as a dry croak; I was trying hard not to inhale. Anything that made Steve the way he was, I didn’t want to have in my system.

  “No. Get outta here, you little twerp.” His friends snickered and passed the bong they’d momentarily hidden from sight.

  “Okay.” I backed out of the room and shut the door behind me. Then I went back upstairs and took the keys from his jacket.

  I felt guilty about doing this…but let’s be honest, not too guilty. Besides, judging from the looks of things, I guessed that he’d be in the basement for two or three more hours. Enough time for Ted and me to make a quick run to Narragansett Point and scope out the situation. With luck, I’d be home before Smokin’ Steve and his smokin’ crew pried themselves from their hole.

  Sometimes it helped that my brother was a loser. I consoled myself with that idea as I backed the ’stang out of the driveway, being careful not to switch on the headlights until I hit the street. But I would’ve liked it a lot better if he didn’t call me a twerp whenever he saw me.

  Narragansett Point was located at the east side of town, on a broad spur of land next to the Connecticut River. Built in 1962, it was one of the country’s first commercial nuclear power plants, and was thus smaller than the ones that followed it. All the same, the plant once represented the pinnacle of technology, and at one time had supplied Vermont with most of its electricity.

  But that was when most Vermonters still said “a-yuh” and Phish was something you pulled out of the river with a 20-test line and a handmade lure. The accident at Three Mile Island scared the beeswax out of a good many people, and it wasn’t long before a local anti-nuke group began protesting in front of the main gate. Despite the plant’s good safety record, they believed that Narragansett Point was a meltdown waiting to happen, and it helped their cause when NRC inspectors discovered hairline fractures in the reactor’s secondary cooling lines.

  The plant was shut down for awhile and the pipes were replaced, yet that was the first indication that the plant was getting old. Nukes are difficult to run; once billed as being able to supply energy “too cheap to meter,” few people truly appreciated how much effort went into maintaining such a complex machine. Shutdowns became more frequent, and after another decade or so the repair work slipped the cost-benefit ratio over to the red end of the scale.

  By then, New England Energy realized that it stood to make more money by purchasing power from Canadian hydroelectric plants than from keeping Narragansett Point on the grid. Facing pressure from various environmental and public interest groups, and having failed to find a buyer for the aging plant, the company decided to close it down for good.

  Truth to be told, I’d never felt one way or another about having a nuclear power plant in my backyard. It was just there, making no more or less difference in my daily life than the occasional nor’easter or the Pats going to the Superbowl again. Dad used to tell me that he’d taken Mom to a protest rally on their first date, but I think it was mostly because Bonnie Raitt was doing a free concert. And like every other guy who got his drivers license before I did, Steve took girls to the visitors parking lot because it was once the best make-out spot in town.

  But that was before 9/11 caused New England Energy to hire more cops to guard the plant, and in the interest of national security they chased away the teenagers and low-riders. I kept that in mind as I got off the state highway and drove down the narrow two-lane blacktop leading to the Point. It wasn’t long before I saw signs advising me that trespassing was strictly prohibited, and that possession of firearms, knives, explosive materials, two-way radios, alcoholic beverages, drugs, pets, and just about everything else was punishable under federal law by major prison time and fines that I wouldn’t be able to pay off even if I mowed lawns until I was 70.

  Not cool. Not cool at all. I was all too aware of the lingering stench of marijuana in Steve’s car,
and we’d already found empty beer cans rattling around on the floor of the back seat. No telling what surprises may lie in the ashtray or in the glove compartment. I was half-inclined to do a U-turn and head back, but I didn’t want to wuss out in front of my best friend, so I ignored the sign and kept going.

  By now we could see the plant: a collection of low buildings illuminated by floodlights, the containment dome that housed its 640-megawatt pressurized water reactor looming over them like an immense pimple. Narragansett Point didn’t have one of those big hourglass-shaped cooling towers that typified nukes built later, but instead a long structure from which steam used to rise on cold days when the plant was still in operation. Those days were long gone, though, and now the nuke lay still and silent, like some elaborate toy a giant kid had once played with, then abandoned, but had forgotten to turn off.

  It wasn’t until we reached the visitor’s parking lot that we noticed anything peculiar.

  “Look sharp,” Ted murmured. “Cop car ahead.”

  I’d already spotted it: a Jeep Grand Cherokee, painted white and blue, with disco lights mounted on its roof. It was parked near the outer security fence, blue lights flashing against the darkness; beside it was another car, a red Ford Escort, its front left door open. No one in sight; I figured that a security officer had pulled over the driver and was now checking his license and registration.

  With any luck, maybe the cop would be too busy to give us more than a passing glance. The way the parking humps were arranged, though, meant that I’d have to make a swing through the lot before I could turn around. I downshifted to third and tried to drive as casually as possible. No problem here, officer. Just a couple of bored teenagers out for a Friday night cruise to the ol’ nuclear power plant…

  As we drew closer, though, I saw that the Escort was empty; no one was seated behind the wheel nor in the back seat. I caught a glimpse of the chrome dealer stamp on the trunk above the rear bumper: AUTO PLAZA, BELLINGHAM, VERMONT. The Jeep’s driver’s side door was open, too, but I couldn’t see anyone behind the wheel…

  “Hey!” Ted pointed at the front of the Jeep. “Look at that!”

  I hit the brakes. Caught within the Jeep’s headlights was a figure laying face-down on the asphalt, his arms spread out before him. A guy in a dark blue uniform, his ball cap on the ground beside him.

  “Holy…!” Without thinking twice, I grabbed the parking brake and yanked it up, then opened the door and jumped out.

  Ted was right behind me as I rushed over to the fallen security guard. At first I thought he was dead; that caused me to skitter to a halt, but when I looked closer, I didn’t see any blood on his uniform or on the pavement. So I kneeled beside him and gently touched the side of his neck. His skin was warm, and I felt a slow pulse beneath my fingertips.

  “He’s alive,” I said. “Just unconscious.”

  “Oh, man…” Ted stood a few yards away, reluctant to come any closer. “Oh man oh man oh man…”

  “Shut up. Let me think.”

  The night was cold, with a stiff breeze coming off the Connecticut; I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt and looked around. Now I saw things I hadn’t noticed before. A Glock .45 automatic, only a few inches from the guard. A hand-mike also lay nearby, attached to his belt radio by a spiral cord. The situation became a little more clear; the guard had pulled over the Escort, asked the driver to get out, then seen or heard something that had given him reason to draw his gun while grabbing his mike to call for back-up.

  Then he was knocked out. Exactly how, I hadn’t the foggiest, but nonetheless it happened so fast that he hadn’t a chance to sound an alert. Otherwise, where were the other security cops? Why wasn’t there…?

  “Dude, we gotta get out of here.” Ted was inching toward Steve’s car. “This is too much. We gotta…”

  “Yeah. Sure.” My own first instinct was to run away. This wasn’t our problem. It something best left to the authorities…

  Then I took another look at the fallen security guard, and noticed that he was a young guy, no older than forty. About my dad’s age when he’d bought a piece of Falluja. His buddies hadn’t abandoned him, though; two of his squad-mates had taken bullets hauling his body to the nearest Humvee. The soldier’s code: leave no man behind.

  How could I do the same? Like it or not, this was my responsibility.

  “Go on,” I said. “Get outta here.”

  “What?” Ted stared at me in disbelief. “What are you…?”

  “I’m staying.” I nodded toward Steve’s car. “The keys are in it. Motor’s running. Run back to town, find the cops…” I stopped myself. Bo knew my brother’s car, from all the times he’d pulled Steve over. No telling what’d he’d do if he saw Ted driving my brother’s Mustang. “No, scratch that. Find the state troopers instead. Tell ’em what we found.”

  “But…”

  “Go on! Get out of here!”

  That woke Ted up. He almost tripped over himself as he backpedaled toward the Mustang. He hadn’t yet earned his learner’s permit, but he’d spent enough time in driver’s ed to know how to handle five on the floor. Barely. He slipped the clutch and left some rubber on the asphalt, but in seconds the ’stang’s tail-lights were disappearing up the road.

  I watched him go, then I started jogging toward the front gate. There wasn’t much I could for the guard. What I needed to do now was make sure that plant security knew what had just happened here.

  Oh, they knew, all right. They found out, just seconds before the same thing happened to them.

  The front gate was wide open.

  The concrete anti-vehicle barriers were still in place, the tire slashers raised from their recessed slots beneath the roadway, yet sprawled all around the gatehouse were unconscious security guards, some with handguns laying nearby. My nose caught the lingering stench of something that smelled like skunk musk mixed with red pepper; someone had lobbed a tear gas grenade. Even though the wind was carrying it away, there was still enough in the air to make my eyes water. But someone had walked through this as if it wasn’t there.

  I stepped around the fallen sentries, cautiously made my way down the driveway. About twenty yards from the gate, I found a Humvee. Its engine was still running, its doors were open, and on either side of it lay two more security officers. These guys wore military body armor and gas masks; I spotted an Ingram Mac-10 assault rifle resting nearby. There were even a pair of Doberman Pinschers, looking for all the world as if they’d suddenly decided to lie down and take a nap.

  And above all this, an eerie silence. No sirens, no klaxons, no warning lights. Just a cold autumn breeze, carrying with it the mixed scent of tear gas and fallen leaves.

  By now I was really and truly freaked out. Whatever happened here, the guys at the front gate had just enough time to call for back-up. Even so, at least a dozen men, along with two attack dogs, had been taken down…and yet there was no blood, no gunshot wounds.

  Who could do something like this?

  Calm down, man, I said to myself. Get a grip. This is no time to panic…

  Just ahead lay the employee parking lot. A handful of cars, with no one in sight. Beyond it lay the administration building: lights within a ground-floor windows, but no one moving inside. Another ten-foot chain-link fence, this one topped with coils of razor-wire; its gate was still shut. Past that were the turbine building, the control center, and the containment dome. So far as I could tell, though, everything looked peaceful, quiet…

  No. Not so quiet.

  From somewhere to the left, I heard voices.

  I couldn’t make out what was being said, but nonetheless someone was over there, on the other side of the row of house trailers being used by the decommissioning crew.

  For a moment, I considered picking up one of the guns dropped by the guards. They hadn’t helped these guys, though, so what good would they do me? Besides, it was only a matter of time before Ted fetched the authorities and led them back here. Did I really want to b
e caught with a Mac-10 in my hands when a posse of Vermont state troopers stormed the place, along with the National Guard and, for all I knew, the Army, the Air Force, and the Marines?

  No, I thought. You’re just a kid, not Bruce Willis. Get a little closer, see what you need to see. Then high-tail it back to the Jeep and wait for Ted to bring the cavalry.

  (I didn’t know it then, but Ted had problems of his own. By then, Smokin’ Steve and his buddies had decided to go cruising for burgers. When he’d discovered that his precious Mustang was missing, it’d taken all of five minutes—swift thinking, Sherlock—for him to deduce who’d done the deed. So he and his pals piled into another car and went looking for us, with murder on their minds.

  (As bad luck would have it, they spotted Ted just a couple of miles before he reached the local state police outpost. They whipped their car in the right lane and blocked the Mustang, forcing it into a ditch. Ted knew an ass-kicking when he saw it coming; he abandoned the ’stang and lit out across a pumpkin field. He managed to get away…but about the same time I’d was trying to decide whether to pick up a gun, my friend was making his getaway through next week’s Halloween jack-o’-lanterns, praying that he’d survive the night with all his teeth intact. So much for counting on Ted…)

  Following the sound of the voices, I made my way among the trailers, careful to remain in the shadows. Another ring of floodlights was just ahead; peering from behind the foreman’s shack, I saw that they surrounded a fenced-in enclosure. Within it was a broad concrete pad, slightly elevated above the ground, and upon it were rows of concrete casks.

  I’d been paying attention in Mr. Hamm’s physics class, so I knew what I was looking at: the temporary repository for the plant’s fuel rods. Sixteen casks, each thirteen feet tall and holding thirty-six rods, a half-inch wide and twelve feet long, which in turn contained the uranium-235 pellets that once gave Narragansett Point its oomph. After being used in the reactor, the spent rods—which now contained mainly post-fission U-237, along with trace amounts of plutonium waste and unfissioned U-235—were stored in a pool, twenty feet deep and filled with distilled water, inside the containment dome.