by John Randall
PHOOOFFF!
The escalator between the third and first floors became a fire-breathing dragon as an eight-foot section of FriendsShop (on casters) came bouncing down the steps—on fire—with ShitHead Number 5, shot twice through the body and dead before he hit the escalator, his arms and legs flailing in all directions. Although tied down to the top of the portable unit, he looked like a monster from hell; his broken bombs still inside his jacket, but now set on fire as the Third Floor Demolition Derby did its J-O-B.
Bounce, bounce, bounce; the flame from hell slowly descended from the third floor.
“GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT OF OUR BUILDING!” They shouted from above.
Step by step the cart kept rolling downhill until it hit the last of the booby-trapped steps and was stopped by the blue cord. The cart was blazing on fire.
And then it exploded. And when it exploded, the cart, the body, everything was shredded.
It was clear that the bad guys hadn’t won Fifth Avenue.
Everyone below had stopped what they were doing, basically enthralled with the spectacle; like 4th of July on steroids.
Ray turned around. The West Side Mobb had disengaged.
“Wayne, dude,” said Mycah Jarimyah Jackson. Wayne Clark, Mr. Hard-on, aka the Third Dude, aka Mr. Clunkhead Dickhead, had a knife to Gerri Greeley’s throat.
“I want that pussy,” he insisted.
Man thought Mycah Jarimyah Jackson. No pussy is that good.
“Don’t give in to him, Mr. Ray. The library is my life. I love this building. You can’t let them win,” Gerri’s face was angry. “They don’t deserve it. They’re scum! I’d rather die right here than give this asshole an inch.”
Clark, his face steely, cut her throat an inch on the surface, enough to spurt blood.
“Dude, we need to leave”, urged Mycah.
From their right came a steady beat of OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT as the Third Floor group slowly came down the escalators toward the burning FriendShop cart.
Ray walked back toward the stairwell door, picked up his jacket, and extracted the last of the hand-made bombs and the revolver he’d used to shoot #6 at the top of the escalator.
“Here’s the deal,“ Ray started.
But his body jerked, spazed. Fallujah was returning. Current time and Fallujah time were melding together. He hadn’t taken any of his meds today.
“You don’t deserve to live,” Ray shouted, his left hand flicking over his eyes. The room was spinning. “I light this,” he shouted, “toss it over your head to the entrance. It explodes. You and your buttlick friends are first in line; but this good lady, she doesn’t deserve to die,” Ray slowly walked toward the group, who had pulled back. He walked to his left and set the bomb down on the floor. It was now the Big Fart in the Room. It was impossible not to look at the wine bottle filled with kerosene, with a ratty wick hanging down.
Fallujah was coming back heavy. God let me get through this. Ray had been off his meds for the entire day; the first day in nearly six years. His meds were somewhere in Elliott Bay. Was that only today?
With the gang members all looking at the last Molotov Cocktail, sitting up pretty on the floor, Ray dropped to his knees, concentrated, and in rapid succession sent a single shot through the forehead of the two other gang members, then a bullet to the heart of Mycah Jarimiah Jackson; then a dead aim on a wide-eyed Wayne Clark. Fire. The bullet went through Hard-on’s right eye, severing any thought of further cutting Miss Gerri’s throat, the knife falling out of his lifeless hand.
Four shots, four killed.
Woof, woof, woof, woof!
When you visit the King County Public Library in Seattle, look for the picture hanging on the Third Floor wall on the Spring Street side of the auditorium; it’s in an unobtrusive location. On this date twenty-two members of the community, all regular people like you and I, stood up, risked their lives, and saved the building from being burned by gangs, while at the same time other buildings in Seattle were on fire. The reluctant hero in front is Ray Spaulding, sitting next to Gerri Greeley who wears a new dress and now has a “permanent” new home. The rest of the heroes are behind them in four rows. Sitting on his haunches at the right edge of the photo is Marmaduke the Wonder Dog.
Geologic Hazards Science Center
Campus of Colorado School of Mines
The Geo Survey building seemed to get colder by the minute.
“As best we can determine we’re about three miles from the western edge of the volcanic fall path. A shift of the wind and Golden will be covered,” Nancy paused. “My job here is not to hover over you as you do your projects, but to be your sounding board when you have problems, get you more funding and equipment, and be a sharp knife to cut through the bureaucratic bullshit that pervades our government; and to make the National Earthquake Information Office easily accessible to the public. In other words, you’re the ones who are working where the rubber meets the road; me, I’m the one working where the rubber meets the sky.
“But, it’s not my job, nor your job, to come to work and possibly die because you couldn’t leave your equipment behind; or the research and work product was too important.
“Most of us have family; including me. I have no idea where my husband is other than he’s in Montana someplace.” Nancy paused. “However, my recommendation as manager of the National Geological Hazards Science Center is that we seek shelter elsewhere. I can’t force any of you to go along. There will be no recriminations if you don’t. I can’t blame you if you want to stay and find your families. But, my sense is we’re in a bad situation, and that we need to figure this out for ourselves.
“All in favor of leaving.”
Aye
“All in favor of staying.”
There were no dissenters.
“Very well, then. Let’s go to the next problem,” Nancy started. “I have been asked by a group of college students to lead an expedition west or south, someplace over the mountains, and away from the Black Cloud. I’m 42. Some of you are older, some younger; but none of you are between the ages of 19 and 22.
“We’re not dealing with fully-functioning adults with adult reasoning, work experience, PhDs and whatnot. From our perspective, they aren’t children, but they will sometimes behave like children. I’m going to guess that they’ll want nurturing and leadership; keeping to ourselves is not a good idea. We need to integrate quickly and not be raggy parents; it’s not going to do us any good if the 40-somethings have to be right on every decision.
Several groans.
“It could be that this will be a walk in the park. “ She started. “But, probably not. That’s not the way things seem to happen, does it?”
There was no disagreement.
“OK, grab what you need to grab and let’s go over to Kappa Sig. They’re going to be nervous to meet us, and they’ll have many of the same concerns we have,” she added.
“And if they don’t want us?” Al Frohming asked from the back of the crowd.
“Then, we’ll come back here and start out tomorrow by ourselves,” Nancy understood the concern. “But, they have a working fireplace and sleeping bags. We don’t.” If there was a Kappa Sig keg party going on, then what David had proposed wouldn’t work. There was a reason most of the people working for her didn’t have children.
“Kappa Sig, huh?” Al seemed have to have the last word.
“Yup,” answered Nancy.
Eight highly-paid (except for Alma and Janet) left the USGS building, turned left, then right and slowly walked up 18th Street. Above there were stars, except to the east, which was black. The Black Cloud stretched as far as the eye could see north-to-south. Normally Denver was a star show at night from Golden; tonight, nothing. The wall seemed to be closing, lifting higher; but, that could have been an optical delusion as Rodney Dangerfield might say.
In the near distance there was noise; in fact, a lot of it. The group passed the President’s house and continued up 18th to the point where
there was a path that connected 18th with Maple Street on the other side of a small creek that weaved its way downhill through the campus.
There were parties going on; Phi Gamma Delta, Sigma Phi Epsilon; but surprisingly not at Kappa Sigma, a known party house. They weren’t just parties, but Sodom and Gomorrah-turn-Mom-into-a-pillar-of-salt parties. The group walked past the Intramural Field, basically an access for nerds to work out some scientific frustrations during the day; then to the three-story, brick Kappa Sigma house.
Nancy walked up the front door of the two-and three-story brick building which looked like it might be a dorm for 80 or so students; knowing full-well that on Horny Guy’s Night there could be up to 160 students (and others) in the house, but not tonight.
The eight members of the National Seismic Science Center walked through the darkened doors of the fraternity, then to the common meeting area where a large number of mostly sober young adults were talking quietly. At the north side of the room was a fireplace with a nice blaze; students were littered here, there and everywhere. David Freer stood up and greeted Nancy, with few words. Nancy nodded in a this-is-OK manner.
“My name is Nancy O’Brien,” Nancy spoke to the group. “I’m the Director of the National Geological Survey office on campus. These are my employees and friends,” Nancy nodded to her group. “Most of us, in fact, few of us, are parents; instead, we’re scientists. We appreciate your hospitality for the evening,” she turned to David. “David has asked me if we would consider a joint mission to leave Golden tomorrow morning. I think it’s a good idea; perhaps we should go to New Mexico. My suggestion is that we get some sleep tonight and talk about it tomorrow; tomorrow could be a hard day.”
“You mean another hard day, ma’am?” added one of the students. Nancy smiled and nodded yes.
There was so much more so say, but like the parent that says the same thing over and over to a child, it was unnecessary at this time.
Nancy shook David’s hand, who in turn offered her a place near where he and his friends were sleeping. The other seven Geo employees melded into various places on the floor, found sleeping bags and blankets and went into a deep, tired sleep. The fire felt good.
Newcastle, Wyoming
Wyoming/South Dakota Border
The eighty-six miles from Wright to Newcastle, Wyoming took the caravan nearly two hours. It shouldn’t have taken that long, but it did. The trip through the Thunder Basin National Grassland would have been beautiful on any other day but today. Stars were out ahead but the sky behind them was void, as if there was a black hole in the universe six miles west of the caravan. State highway 450 ran into US 16. The sign read Moorcroft 47, Custer 36. Betsy gasped.
“Oh, shit! Moorcroft, that’s where I started today,” and another flood of memories; Don and his kids, the burning stack of cars and the big lug to her left who saved her. To punctuate the thought, Tiger jumped into her lap and began to purr, which was very unlike him.
“Well, if that’s the case, I guess we won’t go there,” Cameron said, wisely.
From the rear of the procession came Wade McGriff in his 2011 Ford F-150, the cargo area packed high with supplies, camping equipment, boxes of linens, towels, gun rack, ammo, and anything practical his neighbors on Shadow Hill Lane couldn’t carry with them. In the back seat were his three boys; Wade Jr., Micah, and Thomas, along with their two golden retrievers. Up front was his pretty wife Cindy, now age 38 but showing no signs of slowing down. Wade pulled into the opposite lane, parked and got out; his cowboy boots making a soft tap-tap as he walked over to Cam’s cab.
“I don’t know if you’re plannin’ to stop here, or not; or if we should go on further. I know the mayor and the sheriff here. I’ve got an idea where we might stay,” Wade looked up at Cam, while nodding his head, still in thought. “Why do you and I go ahead; I’ll pass the word back the line.”
Ten minutes later Wade pulled ahead of Cam, turned right onto US 16 and went no more than a mile, past the West End Lounge (down and out) to the junction of Truck Route 16, turned left and headed into town. It was eerie. The Auto Inn and Roadside Motel were dark; as best that Cam could see, no one was in the manager’s office; the first sign of life was Decker’s Market, who was running on generator. Three lights illuminated the interior of the market.
With a hand motion, Cam pointed that he was going into the market; then guided the Peterbilt and the 5th wheel supermarket into the back of the lot.
“You want to come in?” To which Betsy said sure.
Wade continued down Main Street until it crossed the Burlington Northern Santa Fe tracks and dead-ended at Summit Avenue; then a left and another left; now in front of a red-bricked building that at one time could have been the railroad station, now was City Hall, dark except for candles. Cindy and the kids stayed in the warmth of the F-150 while Wade went inside.
“Hello, Jimmy,” drawled Wade. “Got any dog licenses?” Wade smiled.
“Hello, yourself,” replied Jimmy Barron, 58, only four years away from Social Security. “No, but I could probably rustle you up a building inspector or sell you a cemetery lot,” the rotund, red-faced man laughed; then just as quickly turned serious. “I just talked with Jared Hastings.”
“The phones work?” asked Wade, his eyebrows into a question mark.
“Wyoming Telecommunications Association at work,” referring to the 12 independent telephone companies that serviced rural Wyoming, which was about 97% of the state. “I can call Moorcraft, and Wright; but nothing long distance. I could get six neighbors on the same call but all we’d talk about is how fucking cold it is and when are the lights coming back on.”
“What did Jared have to say?” Wade asked.
“He said you might be coming this way with a shit-pot full of people,” Jimmy paused. “And, he said you were right, and he was wrong; and that it was too late for him to get out of town. He’s in his market, but the market is covered with black ash from the explosion. He said it’ll be just a matter of time before the air filters will be clogged and he’ll die from no air in the building; he can’t get outside, not even to get home to his wife and kids two blocks away, the ash is that thick. He said he was going to open a fine bottle of wine and drink it all down, maybe pass out before he dies.
“It makes me sad,” Wade drawled, slowly.
“Things ain’t goin’ be the same,” Jimmy replied.
“Nah, they’re not,” Wade agreed.
“Is it God, Wade?” the older man asked.
“Don’t know, Jimmy. I know we’ve done enough to piss Him off,” Wade then changed subjects. “Jimmy, I was thinking of the golf course for our people. Parking lot is flat; there’s the clubhouse with a tiny kitchen; and shit, if we need sand we can excavate that fucking bunker on number eight. The clubhouse will give our people a focus, a home base.”
“Robert won’t be happy, but he gets more pussy than any ten men in town, so it’s a tradeoff,” referring to the local golf pro.
“I’m going to need keys to the building; do you have a copy?” This was Newcastle, Wyoming, not someplace fancy. “I don’t want to have to trace Robert down in the middle of the night, if you know what I mean?” Wade laughed. Newcastle was like The Big City to Wright, bookends to the Thunder Basin National Grassland area.
Jimmy shuffled through his desk and came up with a set of keys to the Newcastle Country Club; also to the Coke and Pepsi machines.
“Welcome to Newcastle, Wade,” said the older man. “Things are different now, aren’t they?”
“Yup,” Wade answered. “Everything is going to be different. People don’t have any money. People don’t have any gas. People are crowded together and not in the comfort of their homes; there’s no fucking cable TV. It’s not just Wright; but it’ll be the others that will come; all the other people who are lost. You’re going to have to hire a police department; probably me and some others,” Wade said, sadly. “And then you have to figure out who’s going to be the Judge and do you have a jur
y? And then after that we’re going to have to figure out punishment, banishment from the tribe, the death penalty, 50 lashes with a wet noodle, put ‘em the sand and pour honey over their head, death by stoning, cut off their balls.” Wade stopped.
“I suppose you’re right. Oh, yeah; I forgot. Jared said tell you that you were lucky that truck driver and his girlfriend came by when they did.”
“That’s a fact, Jimmy; that’s a fact,” Wade acknowledged.
Wade McGriff was sorrier that his young family was going to be uprooted; that his wife Cindy wasn’t going to live her dream life, that his kids weren’t going to play football; and that everything was going to be different; less fun, and a lot grimmer. The boys weren’t going to go to Laramie and play Cowboy football because there wasn’t a ‘Laramie’ any more, nor was there a ‘Cheyenne’, or a ‘Denver’ for that matter. He was also sorry that his friend Jared Hastings was dying in his own supermarket in a town he had supported for the last thirty years; and that the town of Wright, Wyoming no longer existed.
The White House
“Chuck, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get to sleep tonight,” the President said.
“You will, sir. We all will. Then we’ll wake up tomorrow and do what we have to do.”
“What are the latest numbers?” The President had been in The President’s Seat in the Situation Room for twelve hours.
“The number of dead we estimate to be one million five hundred thousand Americans; the largest amount in the Denver, Colorado area; nearly six hundred thousand alone, along with nearly the entire population of Cheyenne and Casper, Wyoming; another two hundred thousand. The Black Death they’re calling it; the Black Cloud. In Seattle there are forty thousand dead, and the city is on fire; no lights, no communications; inland, the Tri-Cities of Richland, Pasco and Kennewick—another two hundred thousand dead because of the failure of the Columbia Generating Plant; in Portland, ten thousand, primarily because of bridge and infrastructure failure.