by John Randall
Whoa!
The Sonoma started to shift in the water, making scratchy gravelly noises on the smooth pebbles below. Penny yelped, thinking she was going to tumble into the water. The vehicle felt unstable as hell. The Yellowstone River was taking the first pieces of volcanic ash.
“Come on! Hurry the fuck up!” The rude shout came from inside the cab.
Why am I here she asked herself. Penny balanced herself as she opened the driver’s side of the cab; out rushed a stench of human waste, vomit, and five-day male body odor.
“Man! That’s awful! Jesus Fucking Christ! Shit! How can you fucking stand yourself, you big piece of shit?” she shouted at him. The Smell from Hell caused her to shift her feet again, this time directing the spin of the Sonoma; the truck’s body gave her a definite feeling of surf’s up as it started to shift toward the middle of the fast-moving river.
In very poor light Penny saw that the old dude was hanging by his seat belt, and because his heavy body was leaning downhill, his right arm pinned by the seat and the angle, there was no way he could reach around with his left hand and release the clasp.
Hoping that the open driver’s side door wouldn’t fall on her, wouldn’t that be a treat, Penny hung onto the steering wheel with her left hand, and needed another left hand, with her face to the windshield, shot her right hand around the big body and groped for the seatbelt release.
“Don’t you try to feel me up, girlie!” he shouted.
Penny had plenty of retorts but no time. Yes! The seatbelt release! Snap! Whack went the chest release.
Picture a one-second flying asshole.
Smack! The old turd fell face forward into the passenger floorboard, which was now slushy with six inches of Yellowstone River. It was like throwing a porcupine into a tub of hot water; a new definition of a Whirling Dervish. It was like all of a sudden had six legs and arms.
“Old dude!” she shouted. Huh. “Stop moving, you old fuck,” she said with a soft voice that stopped him from snorting something else to her. “Stop!” she shouted. “Climb to me,” Penny had backed out of the driver’s side seat and was perched on the upper level of the Sonoma, which had started to rock and roll; release me! It said.
The old man finally realized what condition his condition was in and shut his trap, instead attempting to stand and navigate through the driver’s side door. Penny’s arm was there to grab him, to help him; instead the asshole tried to start to pull her back down into the cab. Instead of her hand, he grabbed for her breasts, getting a brief but good feel. In the same swipe his hand found her crotch with two fingers landing in the right spot.
“No! You piece of shit! No!” Penny smacked him hard across the head with her right hand; her left still holding onto the steering wheel. “You evil, cock-sucker!” she shouted, and kicked him in the face, momentarily stunning him.”
Time to go, Penny her clock rang.
Penny jumped off the Sonoma and landed into eight inches of cold, rolling Yellowstone River. The truck was starting to rotate. The old dude had regained some of his senses and started to climb out of the driver’s side onto the spot where Penny had perched, but then fell back into the cab, heavyweight butt falling first, smack into the passenger side foot well and six inches of Yellowstone River water.
“You get your pink twat back here you little bitch,” he shouted. “You can’t leave me out here. I’ll sue your little slit and have your ass for breakfast!”
The 2004 Chevy Sonoma caught the inside current and no longer made slushing sounds as it slowly crawled over the worn rocks and pebbles.
With hateful anger Penny grabbed a “smoothie” and hurled it at the truck; whack went the sound as it bounced off the cab and fell into the river; then she fell to her knees, oblivious to the cold. She’d almost been taken to her death by the depth of her humanity; that people were basically good, and that when people were in trouble, it was your responsibility as a human being to help.
How fucking stupid can you get? She cursed herself.
The Chevy now was in deeper water. Water inside the cab would get deeper as well. The Old Fuck was stuck like a cork in a bottle of wine. Water would be in his lap, and very cold, like holding a bucket of ice cubes. At some point the balance of the cab would shift, tires and frame rotating because they were heavier. The F-10 would catch the deepest part of the Yellowstone River and float downstream, eventually catching on a rock or rock outcropping. The Old Fuck would either drown or freeze to death; from Penny’s standpoint, both were satisfactory.
Now it was dark. The bits of sky continued to fall. Penny scrambled the last few feet and wordlessly pointed to the children to get into the cab. Staggering, she swept the tent and all the gear into the flatbed of the Toyota; found her keys in her wet pants, staggered back to the cab and got in; fired up the truck, wheeled out of the campground, and on instinct turned left (east). The truck was covered with a light dust of volcanic crap; she started the windshield wipers; flappa-flappa, it sounded like she was washing the window with a Brillo pad.
Immediately, she found River Road which she still logically figured, followed the fucking river. Penny tore-ass east on the road; the children were beside her in wide-eyed bewilderment for about the tenth time today. Eight miles later they came to an intersection with Duck Creek Road. In that brief distance the sky had stopped raining volcanic ash, but Penny knew it was following her, like a monster, slowly grabbing behind, trying to pull her back, growling, and jaws snapping in anger.
“Shit! Mother-fucker! You god-damned son of a fucking bitch! You are not going to win!” Penny beat on the steering wheel of the old truck. Wheeling to the left, Penny turned and found herself on a road that crossed the Yellowstone River. There were no more prayers left, only that the Old Fuck would drown somewhere directly under her as she crossed the river.
Oh man oh man oh man, she came to the entrance to I-90. Long gone was the home that she’d find homes for the two children next to her; only that she could save them for Just One Night.
Downtown Billings lay in ruins to her left as she slowly made her way onto I-90 eastbound. The highway was dark. The town of Billings was mostly dark, lit only by dozens of fires from exploding gas lines. A clear light would have shown the tall buildings in town were destroyed; power out, services out; and the Black Cloud on its way. Not a good day.
Penny had a half-tank of fuel left, but was secure in the knowledge she had camping equipment for the three of them. Soon Billings was in the distance. She slowly approached each and every overcrossing. In the middle of nowhere I-90 broke off and went south, toward Cheyenne and Denver. Somewhere in Wyoming it would head east and the southern road would become I-25, home for long-distance north-south truckers.
She couldn’t see anything to the west because it was already night. She was the only person on interstate 94 East. Why was that? Well, she thought to herself. There’s probably some big-assed fuck-up ahead.
The children had fallen asleep but Penny was wired.
Just go until you can’t go any more, then wake up and see if you can figure anything out. Just, go.
Penny continued to spin the search dial on the radio bands, hoping to find something.
You did great today, Penny-girl. Abandoned your boyfriend to die, beat up a drunk woman, killed a mean old man, got pregnant and had twins. Whew, what’s up for tomorrow?
I-25 Corridor
I-70 eastbound to Kansas and I-76 eastbound to Nebraska were packed with cars trapped in jammed traffic; no place to run, no place to hide. No motels, no churches, no farmhouses; nothing but East Colorado semi-desert ranchland. Because of the persistent down-canyon winds, the western wall of the black cloud hovered just east of Boulder, then tapered down to a point less than two miles from Golden; virtually all of Jefferson County was covered in black. Residents of Arvada, Wheat Ridge and Lakewood just had to drive a few blocks and they could—or would have—been safe. Many didn’t.
With the winds, the cloud had spread eastward to Ft. M
organ and further south to a little bit east of Limon. Colorado Springs was not spared, nor was Pueblo; however, persistent drivers on I-25 could head west on US-50 or US 160 back toward the heart of the Rockies and escape the Black Death; which took a turn eastward and continued south.
By 6:00 PM MST black volcanic ash had started to fall in Amarillo, Texas; home of America’s only nuclear weapons assembly and disassembly plant.
Continue operations? Evacuate? Babcox & Wilcox, site contractors, needed a decision from the Department of Energy. It was an excellent question. As it was a bad day in Washington as it was everywhere else, the go or no-go decision could have just as easily been made by the kid delivering the Amarillo Globe-News on his bicycle; or two-out-of-three in rock-paper-scissors, four-out-of-seven heads or tails, or last-hand-on-the-baseball-bat (no caps!).
Instead, it was the ultimate cop-out. No decision was made; that way nobody eats the blame because there was no decision to be made. Close the plant? Are you crazy? Evacuate Pantex (just because the citizens of Amarillo were leaving in droves)? Are you nuts?
Hopefully the school kids delivering the Globe-News had parents who could see an advancing Black Cloud of Death and make the decision to get out of Dodge, or in this case, Amarillo. South on I-27 toward Lubbock was OK, as was west on I-40 toward New Mexico.
Texas residents had the supreme advantage of having electricity because their state government had long ago decided not to go along with the other states in the transferring of electricity from one generating system to another; Texas would remain energy independent; the only exception being El Paso Gas and Electric, which controlled energy for the western tip of the state, from the desert west of Odessa to the New Mexico border.
Amarillo residents could go to the gas station, wait in lines, but get gas. They could also go to their cash machines and withdraw currency, or go to the local bank (Amarillo National, Wells Fargo, Bank of America, Chase, First United, Herring Bank, and good old Happy State Bank with 30 locations in 20 communities.
They could also feel free to go into a sporting goods store and buy camping equipment (Dicks, Academy, Big Five, Gander Mountain, Hills, CD Ski, Foot Locker, and Gebo’s); of course, when you have electricity you don’t necessarily think about camping in the desert, not when you have ice cubes for your cocktails and your interstate highways haven’t buckled.
Get a snort? Go to one of 32 liquor stores in Amarillo; they were all open. Wanna go out for a steak, honey? Plenty to choose from; Saltgrass, Embers, Hoffbrou, Outback, Country Barn, B.L. Bistro and Macaroni Joe’s; or simply to go Albertson’s or WalMart and pick up something for the BBQ.
As the sun went down, life in Amarillo, Texas was a hell of a lot different than Seattle, Washington.
Downtown Seattle
What passed for the sun was virtually down in Seattle. Whoops, it’s gone. Then there was night; a damp, wet night so typical of Seattle. Most nights the mist, the light rain would be romantic; the lights of the city, the attractions lit up; but tonight it was nothing but misery.
Fires burned out of control in downtown; some set by gangs, some by exploding gas lines. The Seattle Police Department, undermanned from the beginning of the day, now showed considerable stress as third-shift and early first-shift officers were into their third shift of the day because no one could get into or out of downtown Seattle.
Back-up radio communications had been all they’d been able to use all day long. Phones, cells, satellites, all had gone to poop. To the average patrolman it felt like they were on Dragnet; sometimes on Car 54 Where Are You. Bad crap was happening everywhere. Roads were closed because of: you name it, accidents, concrete failure; buildings collapsing. Policemen were scattered throughout town. People were out and about because there was no electricity; it was impossible to tell good guys from bad guys, from the do-badders to regular folk just outside their house trying to figure out what the hell has happened.
There was no TV. Radio existed but only by battery; and you had to have the old- time radios; nothing “pad” worked; the air was mostly dead; what sounds came out were CB’ers on battery, broadcasting to the neighborhood or beyond; sometimes their signals would reach two streets over, sometimes 500 miles away, depending on how the signal bounced.
At six o’clock when it was fully dark and no one could see more than a block and a half, two members of the Blood West/Side Street gang threw pretty good versions of Molotov Cocktails into the entrance to the Fairmont Olympic Hotel at the corner of University and 4th Avenue.
Eight blocks away on the south side of the massive Columbia Center, at 76 floors high the tallest building in the Pacific Northwest; it was cocktail time at the Seattle Police Department, 610 5th Avenue.
The Columbia Center occupied an entire square block of real estate and cut off views to the north by any building in its shadow. The Yessler Terrace Bloods, long-time “owners” of a large area of real estate, from 12th Avenue west to I-5, down to S. Main Street; a gang with well over 200 members, crossed I-5 on Yesler Way, mainly using motorcycles, took a right onto 5th Avenue, one way southbound, opposite direction, but since there were no lights on, no cars on the road, and no patrol officers, who was to stop them?
The attack was swift and accurate; firebombs lit up the evening sky as the main entrance was attacked, also the entrance/exit to the parking garage next door, and the entrance to the King County Adult Detention—City Jail.
It wasn’t one or two cocktails, but a dozen—maybe two dozen. The Seattle police department building began to burn. Inside, inmates were going nuts—doing everything they could to disrupt The Man.
Mt. Baker Tunnel
Inside the Mt. Baker tunnel, Denny and Karen exchanged meaningful looks.
“Are you sure?” Karen asked.
“No, I’m not sure,” Denny replied, shaking his head, deliberately.
No, you mean you’re not sure you’re going to be a grown-up today? When were you planning to become a grown-up? After you fucked this girl? Or the next? Or the next?
“After all we’ve been through today?” she asked shaking her head; a mop of uncombed brunet stringy hair falling to her shoulders; her chest heaved, tears welled in her eyes; her breasts outlined her shirt, wet-from-perspiration and the multiple exertions of the day.
“You can come with me,” he looked at her earnestly.
“Who’s going to lead them where they need to go?” Karen started to cry.
“I don’t know. Crybaby maybe,” he answered.
“Shut up,” she hit him hard.
There was a brief silence between them.
“Mr. Denny?” It was Jerry. “Everything’s in place.”
He’d been promoted to Mr. Denny.
Everything was in place.
The Mt. Baker tunnel stunk like gasoline and dead bodies.
“Mr. Denny, if you don’t go now, you won’t make it.”
Denny turned to Jerry. The gang violence a half-mile away would eventually turn to the victims in the Mt. Baker tunnel.
Denny turned and kissed Karen on the lips, a kiss that was returned, full body embrace, four hands finding their own way. After twenty seconds Denny broke the kiss.
“Not bad, rook,” he smiled.
Behind him was a 1993 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon; the car that asked millions of owners could we drive to California today? Somehow the Beast That Lives survived the eastbound tunnel crash; and had been turned back around, westbound, its new owners finding a path for the monster to head west. In the passenger seat, and the wide expanse of the rear seating/storage area, were ten people in a variety of pain; the worst of the worst.
“Karen,” Denny put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “I’ll find you. It might be tonight, or tomorrow, or next month. But, I’ll find you. Keep going south. Nothing is going to get better here.”
“But, your bike,” she started.
“It’s OK. Don’t forget your backpack; mine is in the rear storage.” Then he got into the worn, comfor
table tan leather seat. His last words to her were; “You remember what to do. It’s got to be fast.”
“I’ve got it,” she answered confidently.
“Then go south, Karen. Here, take this,” he handed her his cell phone. “When the phones come up and we get through this, I’ll find a phone and call you.” He wrapped the cell phone in her right hand along with a re-assuring squeeze. Turning to the task at hand, Denny pressed the accelerator and the ancient Buick responded with a giddy-up roar.
Are we going to California?
The Deuce 8 and SSL-13 gangs now filled I-90’s lanes; a half-mile to the west the interstate was crashed at the junction of I-5; a half-mile to the east was the Mt. Baker tunnel. In between, just west of the Rainier Ave. S. exit over 200 gang members gathered, motherfucker’d and nigger’d each other; with more than a handful of skirmishes: Jesus Hernandez Fernandez and Gusus Gusus Howard, a deep scowl on each face, assessed the situation. It was going to be dark in a few minutes and there was no reason anybody should die on the white man’s highway.
“Look!” shouted several thugs as the two gangs began their posturing. WTF? It was a station wagon coming out of the eastbound lanes going in the wrong direction!
Jesus Hernandez Fernandez looked on with amusement as he saw the station wagon slowly drifted across five lanes to the first of two HOV switchbacks. The wagon exited the wrong way on the eastbound HOV-to-regular eastbound, came to a stop and made a quick K-turn and began to go eastbound on the parallel reversible lane.
“Mother-fucker is trying to get over to Rainier!” through his neighborhood again. Black Jesus gave brown Jesus the high sign, which was returned. No battle today. No one was trying to take territory. Fucking lights were out and tempers were out of hand. With the size of the Deuce 8 much smaller than the SSL-13, any battle would have been short-lived. Most of the Deuce 8s started to get onto I-90 and chase the Buick, while a handful decided it might be better to get down to Rainier and see if they could cut the car off that way.