Albert sat at the table for a few more minutes, slowly absorbing what appeared to be Animal's last moments. There was no way to know. Maybe it was just the cell tower. He tried dialing again and the call went to Animal's voice mail.
He would never know what happened.
Ludwig watched him from the floor, his fur drying in the kitchen warmth.
Albert caught a few words on the radio and turned the volume back up.
"The president is expected to speak from an undisclosed location in about two minutes. President Obama and key members of the cabinet have been taken to what is being described as secure underground facilities..."
Albert stared at the radio. They must realize what effects that announcement would have across the country...the country hell: the world. Of course they realized it. So either things had gotten very serious very quickly or they were about to.
The announcer's voice broke in again: "All transportation facilities have been ordered closed effective immediately. All air traffic is being diverted to the nearest airport, passenger trains, subways and all rail transport has been shut down. There are reports that an Amtrak passenger train has been derailed in a remote section of the Rocky Mountains about one hundred miles west of Denver. Cell phone reports from the scene indicate a series of explosions on the tracks and in the engine shortly before the train tumbled into a fifty foot gorge. At this time the number of casualties has not been determined. High winds and blowing snow are hampering rescue efforts.
"Reports are still coming in from all over the country of semi-trucks exploding without warning. Detonations have occurred in traffic jams, in loading docks and at various truck stops. About one hour ago a fuel tanker filling the underground gasoline tanks at the Walt Whitman truck stop in Pennsylvania exploded killing the driver and nine others and ignited a massive gasoline fire that is still burning...Again, emergency crews and fire brigades are unable to reach the scene because of heavy snow and snarled traffic-
Then another voice broke in: "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States..."
There was the sound of the microphone banging against something and then Obama clearing his throat.
"My fellow Americans, by now you have become aware of the massive terrorist attacks mounted against this country only days before we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace..."
More static interrupted his speech and the radio went completely silent. Albert waited a moment, expecting it to return but there was nothing except the faint hiss of the receiver collecting atoms from outer space.
He tweaked the dial and got nothing on any of the stations.
Whatever was happening it was happening fast and outside the control of the authorities, or so it seemed.
The radio came back on with Obama in the middle of his statement.
"...without the necessary authority. So I am temporarily suspending habeas corpus to allow law enforcement agencies to deal with the situation at hand. We expect this to be under control in a few days. This is not the end of the world. This is not the end of America or American values or a new way of doing business in this country. But when we face an emergency of this magnitude, we have no choice but to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. I ask all Americans to..."
He turned down the radio volume so that all he could hear was a murmur of platitudes and lies as politician after politician opened yet another can of responses and replies to the staged questions by the media. He would know if the timbre changed,
"C'mon, Ludwig," he said, rising. He put on his jacket and went back outside. The wind was hard and sharp and cut his face, but the snow had stopped falling.
The truck looked like it was in a coma.
He managed to get it started on the fourth try and plowed his way to the shed. The door opened automatically and he drove in and shut it behind him.
A red light glowing from the ceiling told him the generator was still running things, which meant no welding, no electric heat, no fuel processing.
It took more than an hour to drain the lines and the fuel tank using a twelve-volt pump but he finally replaced all the fuel with regular diesel. The truck started immediately.
Ludwig jumped into the shotgun seat and they backed out of the garage.
He crawled down the driveway, the defroster on full but barely able to keep the glass clear.
The highway was empty in both directions. Even the plows had gone back to the stable.
He turned north on 61 for Harlan's trailer, keeping it at a steady 30 mph, though the heavy-duty Ford could probably have handled more, even in the snow. He hadn't gone three hundred yards when he came upon a dry van parked on the shoulder. There were no lights, no emergency flashers and no warning signs, though they could have blown over and been covered with snow. He pulled up beside the Peterbilt and tried to see in the window. The cab appeared empty. He pulled around in front of it and parked and left the dog in his truck. He kept his right hand on a small frame .45 auto in his pocket. But he knew the truck was in fact empty before he climbed up on the step to look inside. When he did, he found the door unlocked but he hesitated before gripping the handle. Then he hesitated again and decided not to open the door and took his hand off slowly. He stepped down and walked back to his pickup. Ludwig cast a sideways glance at him as he got back in and then resumed staring into the trees that lined the road. He let out a short, almost probing bark. Albert saw the hair bristling on his neck. He tried to see out the shotgun window but it was clouded over with dog breath on the inside and blowing snow crystals on the outside.
"I don't think so," he told Ludwig and put the truck and gear and pulled away.
He expected to see more traffic but there was no one. Not a single vehicle passed him in either direction on the six mile drive to Harlan's trailer. He saw several farm houses set back in mid-field still showing lights and several that were blacked out.
The radio started the alarm again and he turned up the volume.
"This is an emergency broadcast. This is not a test. Do not adjust your radio or your television station. I repeat, this is not a test."
He hit a familiar curve in the road and knew he was only a few hundred yards from Harlan's trailer. It sat alone on a lot about the size of a football field. The ground was flat and the driveway easy to manage even under snow.
"A state of martial law may be declared in the lower forty eight states of the United States under Article 1, Section 9 of the U.S. Constitution. Citizens are urged to remain in their homes except in cases of life or death emergency. If you are currently in your vehicle proceed immediately to your place of residence or a safe haven until further notice. The government of the United States of America is determined to protect all citizens from illegal acts, including looting, terrorism, theft, robbery and assault. A national curfew goes into effect this evening at sundown in each time zone. Anyone found to be outside the confines of their private residence or a valid safe haven after this time will be subject to immediate arrest. To determine sundown in your location, continue to listen to your local emergency broadcast station."
Harlan's trailer was lit up like a chicken house. He could see the flicker of a television from the side windows as he drove up.
He waited in the truck for a few moments. The door finally opened and Harlan stood there looking at him, a Ruger .223 pointed right at the driver side of the windshield. Albert waited until he signaled him to come out.
The dog bounded out and ran into Harlan's trailer like he owned the place.
"Gettin a little paranoid, Harlan?"
He let Albert pass him into the trailer and then he closed the door and followed him.
"It's happnin, man. It's happnin, just like we always said it would...just like you always said it would."
Harlan seemed to be reassessing Albert as if he had some new information. Albert looked back at him warily.
"What?"
"You wanna beer?"
"Hell no, Ain't you got something worth drinki
ng?"
Harlan stood the rifle against the sofa and rummaged around for a bottle of Wild Turkey and a pair of shot glasses. He turned around and looked hard at Albert again.
"Don't know how much more of this we'll ever see," he said, handing Albert a glass.
The television flickered at them, sometimes slanting wildly out of control and then jiggering back for a few moments. The sound also was intermittent.
Harlan cocked his glass and Albert thought he was going to start praying or something. He shot it back and refilled it.
"You been watching Lonesome Dove again?" Albert said.
Harlan ignored the crack and sat down.
"How much fuel do you have?" Albert asked after a while. He sipped his Turkey, relishing the rough tones and sharp edges as it burned down his throat. Kinda like lava would be, he thought...no, not that hot...more like burning fuel.
"Huh?"
"I said about two days worth running twenty four seven."
The television flickered again and this time it was back in the hands of one of the networks. A helicopter hovered over a Los Angeles freeway showing a knot of cars and trucks stretching for almost fifty miles. Plumes of smoke wavered in the breeze.
The announcer came back on the screen but the sound was unintelligible.
"Looks like where the one-oh-five and the one-ten come together," Harlan said. Albert watched the picture in the background and nodded agreement.
"Cluster Fuck City."
The announcer had stopped talking and the picture filled again with helicopter footage from the scene.
"They are really fucked up..."
"Ya."
His voice burst in on them unexpectedly.
"...scenes repeated all across the country since about nine A.M. Eastern time when the first trucks exploded on the bridges into Manhattan. Reports are coming in of trucks blowing up in every major city on the United States mainland. A motorist caught this while he was waiting at a traffic light with his cell phone video camera. This is an ABC exclusive. The big question now: Will this affect President Obama's multicultural inaugural party next month? We'll be right back..."
Christmas music chimed in and the screen filled with beautiful scenes of children shrieking with joy as they opened packages of wool sweaters and socks.
Harlan and Albert stared at the television in disbelief.
"Well...okay. Maybe not," a savvy voice commented. "But where it really counts the most, Upper Zone genuine wool sweaters will be there, protecting your loved ones against the cold. This Christmas, let us-"
That commercial ended and a frustrated housewife scrubbed energetically at a bathtub stain wearing rubber gloves and goggles.
Even ABC finally realized what it was doing and the commercials ended and the broadcaster returned, only now the pictures behind him on the big screen had changed.
Cars were lined up for miles trying to get gasoline as panicked Chicagoans attempted to leave the city. A gasoline truck pulled into a station and the driver was immediately surrounded by crowds of screamers. They jumped on the running boards and pounded on his window. He couldn't get out of the truck. One man tried unscrewing the gas caps and he was soon joined by others. A siren started wailing in the distance.
And then the truck exploded in a huge gasoline fireball. Where a moment before there had been several hundred frantic, hysterical people clambering over the vehicle, now there was no one. Every individual in the gas station lot had been vaporized as the gasoline roared across the pavement and into the station building.
Albert looked at his watch. It was not quite noon.
They surfed through the channels and found similar reports from everywhere in the country. The various news organizations were vying for the hottest story, claiming exclusive footage, gibbering in front of politicians of every persuasion and breathlessly reciting the numbers...the numbers of dead, the numbers of exploded transport vehicles, the numbers of people stranded in traffic...they loved numbers.
Albert finished his drink and stood up.
"I'm going to go back," he said.
Harlan seemed almost in shock as he watched the television.
"You can stay at my place for a few days," Albert offered. "Until this shit calms down."
Harlan didn't want to leave his trailer. It was indefensible and not worth much but it was all he had.
"Naw," he said finally.
Albert shrugged. "Well, you know where I live."
The temperature had dropped in the hour he had spent with Harlan and the cold swiped him as he stepped to the ground. Harlan closed the door.
Ludwig was anxious, pointing into the trees at the far end of the property, grumbling incoherently at things Albert could not detect with any of his pedestrian human senses. The dog turned its wet, black eyes on him, trying to impart some information. Albert looked carefully around but saw nothing.
"Whatever it is, I can't see it," he said, opening the door.
The dog jumped in, resigned it seemed to just leaving.
Back on Highway 61, they headed south towards Provost. The wind kept up a running assault on everything from the trees to the passing vehicles, throwing ice crystals at anything it came across and body checking the pickup once in a while.
He could see the Provost outline like a distant city in a smoky painting. He could see even from this distance that the power was back on. Yellowish lights glowed behind the blowing snow.
In town, nothing was moving. A few stores were open including Ogle's Barber Shop, but the streets were empty.
He parked and saw Karl Ogle watching him closely as he walked up the sidewalk and opened the door.
Ogle was alone, his face slightly drawn.
"You open?" Albert asked.
He nodded and indicated the chair.
Ludwig found a corner and walked around in circles for a full minute before lying down and resting his head.
Albert sat and relaxed as the barber cranked the chair and draped him. The television was showing more traffic jams and explosions. They replayed the exploding gasoline truck over and over again.
"What you doing open, Karl?," Albert asked. "Everyone else is home hiding under the bed."
"What you doing getting a haircut?" he countered.
"Might be my last chance for a while."
Karl Ogle snipped away, concentrating on every hair it seemed, trying to drag out the session as long as he could. The television jumped in every once in a while with something new but the situation seemed to have calmed down.
It was after one p.m. and it had been almost an hour since the last report of an exploding truck. The television reports suddenly showed National Guard units deploying around Washington D.C.
"So much for Posse Comitatus," Albert said.
"You going to the meeting?"
"Haven't heard anything about a meeting," Albert replied.
"All the usual suspects are meeting at the high school gym at three o'clock. Them and the police and all...I hear there's going to be sandwiches."
"What's it about?"
Karl looked at Albert in the mirror to see if he was joking, but Albert's face showed nothing.
"The hell do you think it's about?" he said.
Albert nodded and Karl pushed his head back into position.
"We're going to run out of just about everything in a few days," Ogle continued. "Where the hell do you think all that shit comes from? Trucks. Trucks bring it in night and day. Now they're saying ain't a truck movin in this country without being checked. Well, how the hell are they going to check all them trucks? How long's it going to take 'em?"
Albert listened without comment. Ogle was waving the scissors around as he talked. Albert kept his eyes on the scissors. It was like watching a giant mosquito preparing to pounce.
"An emergency session of congress..." the TV bleated...."recalled from Christmas break"...president will address the nation..."
The two watched the television announcer as he read his teleprompte
r. They could see his eyes moving.
"Well," Karl said, finally. "Congress is getting involved. I feel better already."
The snow had stopped and the wind had died down. He walked around the town square checking the store windows. Muriel Stallman was standing in her dress shop, looking morose behind a pair of tortoise shell glasses from 1953. He knew her name but had never met her. She watched him pass indifferently.
A police car crept around the corner and he could see Harold Monteith's older boy, Jeff, behind the wheel. He waved and Jeff waved back at him, his face dumb and expressionless. The elder Monteith was a braggart and a liar and you could sense the tension between father and son whenever they happened to meet in public. The boy was still trying to get a clap on the back even though he didn't make varsity in High School. So he decided to settle in as a city policeman in his home town where he could hassle and possibly arrest all the members of the football team and anyone else who had annoyed him. Jeff was five foot eight, which added to his personality disorder. He was everything a policeman should not be. Watching him pass, Albert wondered how he would handle the arbitrary power that was inevitably coming down. He guessed Jeff was looking forward to it.
When he got back to his truck, it was after two-o'clock and Ogle had closed up. He started the pickup and sat there for a while, listening to the radio and watching the dull countenance of the storefronts. They were all barely hanging on. About five years ago, WalMart had surged into town behind an entourage of local officials dancing naked and throwing garlands before them. "We're saved," they shouted. In the first three months half the stores in town, some of which had puttered along in their own sleepy way for generations, closed up and vanished. Deluded dreamers kept renting the downtown properties and trying their hand at various enterprises from independent video rentals to used appliances but the corporate video/DVD companies put the former out of business in weeks and used appliances were worth more to the Chinese as scrap than they could be sold for in the new recycling fad. Muriel Stallman held on, selling a few dresses here and there, a sweater, a brassier to her high school friends, all women in their fifties and sixties. But WalMart was killing her too. She had held on since the almost crash of 2008 but without a Christmas rush, she couldn't pay her electric bill.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 3