"I hope you find it someday and fix everything, so I can fly, too."
Tanner flipped the butt into the ditch beside the road.
"If I ever do, that'll be the first thing I fix."
"Thank you, Hell."
Tanner jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind. The sun rose a little higher, and the fog-snakes died beneath his heels.
Tanner regarded his freed vehicle, said, "I guess I'll be going, then," and nodded to the Potters. "Thanks," he said, and he unlocked the cab, climbed into it, and started the engine. He put it into gear, blew the horn twice and started to move.
In the screen, he saw the three men waving. He stamped the accelerator, and they were gone from sight.
He sped ahead, and the way was easy. The sky was salmon pink. The earth was brown, and there was much green grass. The bright sun caught the day in a silver net.
This part of the country seemed virtually untouched by the chaos that had produced the rest of the Alley. Tanner played music, drove along. He passed two trucks on the road and honked his horn each time. Once he received a reply.
He drove all that day, and it was well into the night when he pulled into Albany. The streets themselves were dark, and only a few lights shone from the buildings. He drew up in front of a flickering red sign that said, "Bar & Grill," parked, and entered.
It was small, and there was jukebox music playing, tunes he'd never heard before, and the lighting was Poor, and there was sawdust on the floor.
He sat down at the bar and pushed the Magnum way down behind his belt so that it didn't show. Then he took off his jacket, because of the heat in the place, and he threw it on the stool next to him. When the man in the white apron approached, he said, "Give me a shot and a beer and a ham sandwich."
The man nodded his bald head and threw a shot glass in front of Tanner, which he then filled. Then he siphoned off a foam-capped mug and hollered over his right shoulder toward a window at his back.
Tanner tossed off the shot and sipped the beer. After a while, a white plate bearing a sandwich appeared on the sill across from him. After a longer while, the bartender passed, picked it up, and deposited it in front of him. He wrote something on a green chit and tucked it under the corner of the plate.
Tanner bit into the sandwich and washed it down with a mouthful of beer. He studied the people about him and decided they made the same noises as people in any other bar he'd ever been in. The old man to his left looked friendly, so he asked him, "Any news about Boston?"
The man's chin quivered between words, and it seemed a natural thing for him.
"No news at all. Looks like the merchants will close their shops at the end of the week."
"What's the last you heard of the situation there?"
"Folks keep dyin'. Other folks keep leavin' town, so's not to be caught by it. Dozens of 'em pass through here every day. There's a block up, up the road, for flaggin' em down to tell 'em they can't stop. So they go on through and stop wherever they can find a settlement'll take 'em in. Also, there's a whole bunch of 'em that's taken to campin' up in the hills, thataway." He indicated the north. "It's three, four miles out of town. You can see their lights from the square."
"What's it like, the plague?"
"Ain't never seen a man die of it. But I hear tell he gets real thirsty and then starts to swell, under the arms and around the neck and down there, and then his lungs just fill with his own juices, and he drowns hisself."
"But there's still some people alive in Boston?"
"They keep comin'."
Tanner chewed his sandwich and thought of the plague. "What day is today?"
"Tuesday."
Tanner finished his sandwich and smoked a cigarette while he drank the rest of his beer.
Then he looked at the check, and it said, ".85."
He tossed a dollar bill on top of it and turned to go.
He had taken two steps when the bartender called out, "Wait a minute, mister."
He turned around.
"Yeah?"
"What you trying to pull?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you call this crap?"
"What crap?"
The man waved Tanner's dollar at him, and he stepped forward and inspected it.
"Nothing wrong I can see. What's giving you a pain?"
"That ain't money. It's nothing."
"You trying to tell me my money's no good?"
"That's what I said. I never seen no bill like that."
"Well, look at it real careful. Read that print down there at the bottom of it."
The room grew quiet. One man got off his stool and walked forward. He held out his hand and said, "Let me see it, Bill."
The bartender passed it to him, and the man's eyes widened.
"This is drawn on the bank of the nation of California."
"Well, that's where I'm from," said Tanner.
"I'm sorry, it's no good here," said the bartender.
"It's the best I got," said Tanner.
"Well, nobody'll make good on it around here. You got any Boston money on you?"
"Never been to Boston."