The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  Cam turned on his radio and pressed Seek. The AM numbers buzzed from 510 to 1600 and started back again; pressing FM and seek managed to find 88.3 on your dial, KRST in Ogallala, Nebraska; all Jesus, all the time. There was Pastor Rick shouting from the big satellite connection to his mega-church in Waco, Texas.

  “BROTHERS AND SISTERS GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND PRAY—PRAY FOR FORGIVENESS—IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO MAKE YOUR PEACE WITH GOD—BELIEVE IN JESUS—THOSE WHO COME LAST GET THE SAME EVERLASTING REWARD AS THOSE WHO CAME TO JESUS FIRST. THIS HORRIBLE CLOUD, THIS DISASTER—IT’S OUR FAULT FOR NOT GETTING RIGHT WITH GOD. THEY’VE POISONED OUR SCHOOL SYSTEM AND OUR GOVERNMENT AND OUR WATER SUPPLY. BUT IT’S OUR FAULT—NOT GOD’S--GOD IS PUNISHING US FOR ALLOWING THIS FILTH TO—“

  Cameron mashed the on/off button, his heart thumping; the juxta-positioning of the waggling death cloud and Pastor Rick’s get-down-on-your-knees urging was just too coincidental. Every driver on the Long Mile knew Rick because every radio’s seek button would hit a local FM station someplace in the 80s on the dial and there he’d be—24 fucking hours a day—hammering the homos.

  Cam had done some Bible reading in his day; he knew the passages from Genesis, Leviticus, Corinthians, Ephesians and Deuteronomy. Leviticus was a tough read, created by God because the merry band of whining Israelites wanted a set of rules to follow; so God said ‘You want some rules, I’ll give you rules. Here, don’t have sex with horses’, that and 1100 other things to do and not to do.

  While Cam thought homosexuality was odd, he bought off on the scientists who said 4-6 percent of people on Earth found sexual lust, and after all sex is lust in action, from persons of the same sex. These people weren’t pre-destined to be on God’s bad side from birth. Butt sex is less about sex than it is about control; it’s painful to the woman, even with a pre-lube. Why would you want to have sex with a woman’s butt when you can have the good stuff? It’s dry, you have to be really hard, and it’s painful to at least one of the participants.

  So why wasn’t there something in Leviticus about butt sex with a man and a woman?

  What if God’s Holy Word had been first heard and transcribed by one of the 4%ers? After all, homosexuality has been around for a long time, even for a long time from the perspective of the wandering, whining Israelites. What would God’s Holy Word be like if the transcriber(s) liked to accessorize shepherd’s outfits instead of tend the flock? Or liked mauve caves with pale yellow accent rocks?

  A shitload of things would be different.

  For one thing, you wouldn’t have to listen to fucking Pastor Rick every place you drove.

  The black cloud that started to cover Cody, Wyoming at 9:00, now buried the town by one PM. The top plume of dark ash had risen to 35,000 feet where it met the Polar Jet Stream which was roaring along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains, all because a large area of the Pacific Ocean decided to get warmer this year (La Nina) and had created a large zone of high pressure in the eastern Pacific. The relative temperature difference caused a zone of high pressure to form in the Eastern Pacific, which in turn forced the Polar Jet to go higher in latitude than normal, and brought increasingly bad weather to British Columbia and the NW US, Washington and Oregon.

  In a “normal” year the volcanic ash from the Yellowstone caldera explosion would have gone up into the air, disbursed but and mostly fallen to the eastward across Wyoming and into South Dakota. Cody would have been toast, regardless. But, since the US was dealing with The Bitch, the Polar Jet stream was now flowing directly over the top of the world’s worst volcanic eruption.

  At 16,000 feet the ash began to rise and start moving East, then southeast, driven by the natural mountain formations of Wyoming and Colorado, hardly different from the wind that goes through a city; the eastern slope of the Rockies created a natural wind tunnel effect. Forced by enormous pressure from the constant explosions, the caldera continued to up-chuck unimaginable tonnage of burnt rock high into the atmosphere, forcing the material up as high as 35,000 feet. Once there, it went with the flow.

  The massive, ever-expanding cloud moved along the jet stream now at 140 miles an hour above 28,000 feet, quickly dropping ash onto Worland & Ten Sleep, Wyoming and scaring the shit out of drivers on I-25; Ten Sleep being the number of nights it took the Sioux to travel from the camps along the Platt River in Nebraska to the summer camps near Bridger, Montana.

  Shortly after the Scream and posse passed Cam, and Cam dealt with Pastor Rick, Cam noticed there was no traffic on the opposite side of the road; nobody heading northbound. Even with the Death Cloud, somebody would be heading north; not today

  You have to have driven in eastern/central Wyoming to know how far ahead you can see things. There were no trees, the land—although not flat, instead, one ravine after another—appeared to be flat. Ahead in the distance smoke rose from what appeared to be the center of I-25. Cam tapped his GPS and the computerized woman’s voice replied “Smokey Gap Road, exit 227, Natrona County, Wyoming road number 387; nearest town is Midwest, Wyoming; population four hundred and eight.” The Voice He Hated didn’t add “home of oiler pride”. Cam hated the voice and the arrogance of the GPS, but had found it handy when he had to find alternate routes because of weather.

  Still not exactly sure of what happened at 7:20 MST, the closer Cam got to the exit, and the worse it looked. “Holy shit,” he muttered, letting off the gas. The diesel-fueled Peterbilt, fitted with compression release engine brake, or Jacobs brake, immediately opened exhaust valves in the engines cylinders, which released the compressed air that provides forward motion on the downward power stroke, followed in turn by allowing compressing air into the cylinder on the upstroke. Called Jake brakes, Cam’s 18-wheeler began to quickly slow down; the morning air split with the machine-gun sound of the compression/decompression process.

  Cam slowly approached exit 227 and came to a stop. To his right the Death Cloud was inching towards him. The southbound exit fell off to the right and quickly came to an intersection where a dirt road peeled off to the right; not many miles away it disappeared into the blackness.

  A 200-foot section of I-25 had collapsed in both directions as it crossed over the county road below. Cam walked to the edge of the collapsed road. In the pit below was nothing but death and destruction.

  The last car in the pack, a 2008 Camaro, was packed window-to-window with the Jamison family; Don, Betsy, Little Donnie, the twins Dougie and Helen, and a hateful cat named Tiger (caged, spiting, yowling).

  The ten cars were separated by less than a car length each and went past the Point of No Return at 110 miles an hour, like looking directly over a point of pavement at a NASCAR race—zipzipzipzipzipzipzipzipzipzip. The driver of one of the cars in the middle of the pack had an ohshit instant and tried to slam his brakes, sending his car into a fishtail, which in turn caused the cars behind him to slip, slid and smash.

  Up front, Don and Betsy Jamison had two seconds of Smokey and the Bandit as the Camaro launched itself into thin air above the destroyed overpass. They weren’t even close to making it, missing the southbound macadam by a good fifty feet. Four of the cars were on fire.

  It was enough to make a grown man cry; which Cameron Hedges started. In the far distance to the south, his brain now trained for the unimaginable, Cam could see another fire, and perhaps another fire further south at the Bar Nunn exit north of Casper.

  chinka, chinka, chinka.

  Cam turned to his right. Straight above him the sun’s rays were being absorbed by the dark cloud, which now occupied 120 degrees of his vision. The direct sunlight into the monster’s fall field made the black crystals shine like miniature disco balls; at low levels up to 500 feet the sight was spectacular with a million little rainbows. Dude.

  Dropping acid wouldn’t improve this sight.

  Cam was scared out of his bean. He held out his hand. Microscopic pieces rolled between his fingers like black salt. He looked back at his old Peterbilt, then at the highway. The cloud had jumped to the
east. There was a fifty-foot section of grass and weeds between the northbound and southbound lanes, the road sloped to a V between the two sets of lanes with a concrete drainage ditch that led someplace downstream, difficult to determine in which direction. While simple for most four-wheelers and a piece of cake for any 4WD vehicle, switching lanes was a dicey proposition for his rig.

  OK so what the fuck are you going to do? Your trailer has assorted materials from Minot AFB and you’re headed to New Mexico. Are they going to entrust you with the Queen’s Jewels? No. Whatever crap you’re hauling nobody is going to want; certainly nobody trying to get the hell out of the way of the Black Death. Odds are you and the Government are going to be OK if you loosen your load, park the Minot load by the side of the road, and get the hell out of Dodge, or Midwest, as best you can.

  Convinced he was on his own, Cam disconnected the red and blue cables which connected his semi with the trailer, in effect disabling the power required to support the Jacobs brakes. Attached to the undercarriage of the trailer was a six-foot long steel pole with a hook at the end. Removing the pole, Cam reached underneath the trailer, caught the hook on a piece of metal and unlocked the jaws of the fifth wheel; freeing the trailer from the lifeline to the semi. Two minutes later he began to lower the steel support feet from the front of the trailer, just like rotating a jack when repairing a tire. Whacka whacka whacka went the crank. Minutes later, the trailer had front feet, solid on the ground. Captain, Dan, you got legs!

  Cam then released the air suspension so that the fifth wheel could slowly sink toward the ground, disengaging the kingpin from the jaws of the fifth wheel a full six inches, just enough for the semi’s cab to be able to drive away. It was one of those miracles of modern engineering.

  Going west on county 387 (Smokey Gap Road, state route 114) offered little solace, since the dense cloud was no more than a mile away. Going west made no sense at all.

  Go east, young man.

  Sure, east meant crossing the sunken center divider of I-25, exiting the on-ramp and driving toward the sun to a community of 408 people. Yuppers, let’s head to Midwest.

  Back in his cab, Cam did a K-turn and slowly but surely crossed the divide between the northbound and southbound lanes of I-25. There was no way the trailer would have made it. If the trailer had pitched, so would the semi and what would be the result? He’d be fucked, buried in black crap.

  Enough said.

  Across the divide, then down the northbound ramp to County 387; he stopped at the bottom of the ramp.

  What was that?

  At the backwards stop sign Cam turned the semi’s engine off and lowered his right-side window. There was no mistaking it.

  Help…help…help! It was a woman’s voice, screaming.

  Someone was alive in the carnage of the I-25 overpass collapse.

  Doctor Death had arrived in Eastern Wyoming and was a slipknot away, but the bony arm of Humanity, of conscience remained. It wasn’t always a-what’s-best-for-me situation. As the black dust began to tinkle onto his windshield, Cameron turned his rig to the right and headed toward the destroyed intersection.

  Why me? I don’t know what to do!

  His heart raced with the dangerous scene in front of him. Multiple vehicles were on fire. Cam had been around trucks long enough to know that a truck on fire was like playing Russian roulette with a bomb. He got out of the cab and approached; it was like walking into a wienie roast except he was the wienie. The roadbed of highway 387 was three layers deep in wrecked vehicles; gas spewed out in multiple directions, leaking from fifteen or so gas tanks, making little waterfalls of death.

  “Is anyone alive?” he shouted, stupidly, advancing step by step toward the mess, now to the point where the bitter cold of the morning air was warm enough for a day at the beach. Two long sections of the roadway had simply collapsed onto the county road, leaving twelve concrete-rebar trusses silently standing watch. The drop had been thirty-five feet from the I-25 roadbed to the county highway below.

  On the bottom layer were five southbound cars and three northbound; two Chevys, a Ford 150, three Toyotas, a Datsun, and a PT Cruiser; like Mom’s triple layer cake, next came a thin layer of old-shitty-cars—old farmer cars from local places, people out and about on a cold February day, perhaps going to market in Casper. Regardless, they were dead, whacked to crap—two old Hondas and a couple of old Chevy trucks, now all starting to percolate with the spilled gasoline.

  Cam looked at the death cage of the bottom layer; everyone gone, fires started. It was like I-25 at state 387 was a huge BBQ grill, just starting to get to cooking stage. Cam jumped as to his left he felt a whooooph of fire, like a gas grill getting ignited. There were screams. Jesus, someone is alive! And a shrill animal sound; sweet God, why me, why me?

  You and God have never been that close, Cameron-boy.

  Yeah, OK. I’ll buy that.

  You let your temple get to 260 pounds and you let the road get in the way of your marriage.

  Yeah, yeah.

  You’re a fornicator.

  Oh, bite me! You gave me pieces and parts that make me feel good. What do you want me to do, drop on my knees and say Thank You God for the ability to masturbate?

  OK, that would be nice.

  Well, I don’t buy eternal damnation; or eternal anything. Good or bad. We’re here, we live, and we die. You did give us a conscience. That I believe. You gave us the when-the-rubber-meets-the-road we humans know the difference between right and wrong. Screwing a roadie in the backseat of my cab is none of your damn business.

  “You hear me?” Cameron shouted to the flames.

  It might have been God’s response or simply a co-incidence, but the I-25 underpass at Wyoming State 387 started to get right toasty.

  “HEEEEELLLP MEEEEE!” Came a shriek from above. It was from the Camaro. This was followed by an “Aaaagggh” shriek that cut glass. Pain abounded.

  For a man his size, Cam seemed Mr. Nimble as he climbed the smoldering pile of automobiles, sharp edges everywhere. As he climbed he could hear moans. There might be other people alive in the wrecks. It was too much to bear. One person above sounded alive and needed his help. Twelve feet high, he found driver’s side of the Camaro; Don Jamison was dead; the back seat was a gruesome mess—kids and animals, no one wearing a seat belt. The fire had ignited below which meant the Camaro was going to be a charcoal briquette in the matter of minutes.

  “I can’t move—aaaaaaggghhhh!” cried the missus, the O-lady of his memory.

  Cam moved quickly across the driver’s side, and punched his body up to the roof of the Camaro. God it was hot! What must it be like inside the car? Sliding over the roof to the opposite side of the car, Cam gained footing from the undercarriage of the Ford 150 below him. The Camaro was smashed down tight, nearly welded into the Ford from the impact of dropping twenty-five feet at 110 miles an hour. The windshield was smashed as was the rear; of course, Plexiglas never breaks, so the side windows were beaten but not broken.

  The woman inside was screaming, like she was being roasted on a spit. Her screams came out in God-I’m-dying-I-don’t-want-to-die-please-save-me spits of energy. Flames started to rise from the bakery below.

  Cameron jammed the heel of his right hand into the damaged passenger-side window, then again. He swung himself across the rear window—inside was a gruesome sight of dead children and animals—and slammed his boot as hard as he could into the passenger window. For whatever reason, the boot went through the window, spewing glass throughout the Camaro’s front seat.

  The woman looked to her right. The expression on her face showed there was no doubt she’d seen Jesus. She was on fire. Her pants had started to flame.

  Cam reached through the hole, dislodged the remaining glass with a second and third kick, and grabbed the woman with a big fist-full of blouse followed by another hand on her back. Can’t get her out. Can’t get her out! Why can’t I get her out?

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! God-damn it!” Cameron str
uggled with the woman. She couldn’t be more than 125 pounds, five-foot two.

  Seatbelt.

  As things started to get mighty hot, Cameron was able to reach inside the Camaro and punch the seatbelt release button. With the release, she became virtually airborne.

  “No! Kitty! No! No!”

  This was a true WTF moment.

  Somehow Tiger Kitty, like a drunk in an accident, had managed to survive the accident. As Cameron dragged her out of the front seat, Missus snapped the cage open and grabbed the ornery cat by the scruff of the neck.

  “Down!” Cameron shouted. The woman was beaten up terribly and disoriented, but she understood down and somehow managed to hold on to her cat.

  Staggering, Cameron led then dragged the woman to safety away from the intersection. At 10:38 AM MST Cameron Hodges lay flat on his back on the asphalt surface of state route 387, his big chest heaving from the exertion. He should have had a heart attack. Next to him lay Betsy Jamison, her clothes singed from the heat, her pants burned through in several places. Behind them the I-25 exchange was a funeral pyre with cars, vans and trucks burning out of control. As the Lutherans say in their communion liturgy about the return of Christ, “a portent of the feast to come”, the symbolism of the burning wrecks in the middle of East Nowhere Wyoming was indeed a portent of things to come.

  Tiger, a de-clawed 12-year old black and tan striped tabby, walked around the two and meowed for his breakfast, gently touching his people with the top of his head in a pet me ask, oblivious to what had happened in the last five minutes.

  Downtown Seattle

  The climb through and over the moraine of debris that had been the Seattle waterfront was physically the most difficult thing Ray Spaulding had ever done. Nothing in Army training or his deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan came close.