Black Cat Weekly #13 by Frederik Pohl

Author:Frederik Pohl [Press, Wildside]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, science fiction
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2020-08-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling.

A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next.

“Why do you want to get through, mister?” the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator’s permit.

The man was flustered. “I have some friends in Newtown,” he said. “I thought maybe there was something I could do for them—”

The trooper glanced into the back of the car. Empty. “You haven’t got anything they need,” he said. “Turn around and go home.”

Meekly the man U-turned around the trooper in the road and sped south.

The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side: “Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know the railroads and buses aren’t running, officer.”

But the girl giggled.

“Where does she live in Bradley?” asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary shushing gesture. “Skip it,” he said. “Turn around and go home. This is no circus.”

The driver began to bluster. “I’ve got a license, I can drive where I want—”

“Turn around and go home,” the trooper said. “If you keep arguing I’ll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you’re stupid enough to proceed down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddam head off. Move.”

The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn’t dare say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with the shotgun in a U-turn.

The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.

“I’m from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends,” the man said quietly. “We’ve gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights.”

The trooper hesitated. “We’re supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven’t seen any truck and I don’t know whether there’s going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don’t get hurt.” He called to the trooper in the road: “Let him through.”

“Thank you,” said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour.

Down the southbound lane, the deserted left

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