Tunnel Rat

Chapter 253: Downtown

The sun and sky stared down at Milo, and he stared back. Someone had done an excellent job on the holographic projection on the ceiling. If he had his helmet off, it would have looked real. But his helmet had better vision than his naked eyes. The infrared of the projection wasn't quite right, and he could see small imperfections in the movement of the fluffy white cumulus clouds. The grass, bushes, and trees, however, were very real. The small park in the center of the room had probably been well cared for once, with pathways and trimmed grass. He liked it better this way. The grass was a foot high and gone to seed. Ivy grew up on one of the statues and the trunks of the trees. Pathways were nearly gone as leaves decayed to soil and the grass moved in.

The birds surprised him. They were real as well. He saw a half dozen flitting about in the trees and near a pedestal. They scattered as he approached and saw that an automated feeder dropped birdseed on the pedestal. Too much, since it overflowed to the floor, forming a rotting pile. He walked on the cobblestone road rather than disturb the birds further. The houses were odd, only ten feet of the buildings protruding from the room's brick walls. Looking in a lower window, he could see that they were built into the walls, rooms stretching back. The hallway that circled the area probably accessed them in the back. Each façade was different and had a name: Ferryfarm, Piecefield, Franklin House, Monticello, Highland House, Montpelier, Lincoln Home, The Hermitage, Sherwood, Lindenwald, Springfield, and Wheatland. Each house was massive, as far as Milo could judge, with multiple floors and several rooms per floor. Just the rooms he could see were big enough for an entire family!

In front of each house was a mailbox on top of a wooden post. He only knew what they were after he took pictures and searched the internet. The concept of using paper for messages seemed slow and wasteful.

He checked inside one and saw nothing but a printed note on yellowed paper that said, "Reminder, final party at 6:00 P.M. with departure directly afterward." He found a similar message in one other mailbox. Shiny brass streetlamps circled the park area. They slowly put out more light as the fake sun descended and the sky darkened. Checking the real-time, he concluded that the day/night cycle must be synchronized to the real sun's movements in this part of North America The Habitats did the same thing, keeping people in a cycle for health reasons. But the hall lights only dimmed slightly, not going to full darkness. Bright stars and a partial moon were appearing as the sun set.

He chose one house at random and explored. He was curious why it was called The Hermitage. The interior was dusty, but the furnishings hadn't been stripped. The walls were colored paper, and the furniture in the first room was uncomfortable-looking couches and chairs. He didn't see a screen or game system; someone must have taken those. Instead of a food dispenser, there was a full kitchen. It reminded him of the kitchen Smiley and Bleusnout cooked in at the Hollow. The mess hall in the house was smaller, with a table that would only seat sixteen people. Upstairs was bedrooms and bathrooms. Sheets, pillows, and blankets were yellowing and dusty, but everything looked ready for visitors otherwise. Behind the kitchen was a storage area with canned food, running refrigerators and freezers, and some badly smelling piles that might have been perishable food. He opened a freezer and saw it contained a huge amount of frozen food. He'd return here for dinner and try some of the packages.

Opening the refrigerator was a mistake. Whatever had been inside had gone bad long ago, and he was very happy he wasn't breathing the air. He would have to clean that out with a flamethrower. He saw a large back door. Opening it, he saw a familiar-looking corridor. As he was leaving, an object on a far shelf caught his eye. There was dust on the bright red wax, but not enough to disguise the shape of a cheese wheel. Milo grabbed it from the shelf and dusted it off. A stamp identified it as a twenty-pound wheel of ten-year-old Wisconsin Cheddar. Next to it was a similar-sized wheel of Gouda and, on higher shelves, another dozen cheeses. His mind went blank for a moment, and then he shook himself. He wasn't a cheese-addicted ratkin in a game. Well, not all the time! But still, he was coming back for all of this!

And then he paused and put the cheddar back on the shelf. He didn't have to come back for it! This wasn't a dungeon; no one was here but himself and Rusty. And Rusty didn't eat cheese. He went back outside, looking at the little town, thinking. Who owned this facility? They had tried to destroy it and probably believed they had. What if it was abandoned? He wanted to know the details, but one way or another, and he wanted to keep it. Possibilities were starting to form in his head. But first, he had to find the elevator.

The houses were in two neat rows of six, staring at each other across the green area in the center, with one house at the end of the oval park, and a much larger building at the other end. A small paved courtyard was in front of the more official-looking building. Large wooden double doors stood open at the top of six marble stairs. That was Milo's next target. The sign on this one said 'Independence Hall.' Someone was fond of American history. He'd seen a picture of the one in Philadelphia somewhere above him. They'd stuck the building, a bell, and some houses under a big dome fifty years ago. The dome was cheaper than cleaning off the soot and pollution of the city every few years. And they could charge more for the tour. Inside of this building were some big meeting rooms with wooden tables and chairs.

One side seemed formal, and the other had a bar and fireplace, looking more comfortable with overstuffed leather chairs and couches. That side had a lot of bottles and glasses scattered everywhere. The fireplace was filled with piles of ashes and half-burnt paper that spilled onto the floor. Bits of broken glass were scattered around. Investigating, he found that all the bottles had once held expensive champagne. The glasses people had drank from had been thrown at the fireplace, scattering glass. Charred logs, broken glass, and half-burnt piles of paper filled the fireplace. Milo carefully started moving the charred paper, looking for anything that hadn't burnt completely.

One pile yielded some surprises. He'd noted burnt blobs of plastic and charred identification cards, their magnetic strips ruined. But a stack of paper had been thrown directly after someone had thrown his card into the fire. The paper hadn't burnt completely, and the card was intact. Milo wondered who General Roscoe H. Thaddeus was. He carefully removed the card and looked through the half-burnt papers. The top few were TPS reports and useless except for the first line: Project Wildfire. On the bottom of the pile was a twenty-five-page summary of the amount of business the top 100 economies of the world did through the internet and the effect on each country's GDP if they lost access to online communications. He noted that the report focused on Russia, China, Germany, the UK, and Brazil. The term 'Targeted Economic Strike' was used several times, and there were nicely drawn graphs to show the loss in some countries and the gains in others. The assumption was made that the amount of damage and who it happened to could be controlled with a 95% probability of accuracy.

He stopped sifting the ashes, set the papers on the tables, and then photographed them all.

He returned to the house with the cheese and took the Gouda and a knife from the kitchen. Strolling into the middle of the grassy area, he sat with his back against a tree and did nothing for the next two hours but watch the birds and eat thin slices of aged cheese. The sun disappeared, and a moon started coming up over the horizon. A speaker started making cricket noises somewhere, and a fake coyote howled.