The producer Brian had called earlier that afternoon and scheduled Martin as an official guest on Beyond Insomnia tomorrow night. With any luck, Martin could get to Brixton, do the show, and get back to Billings the next morning without having to tell Rick about it. “No, just wondering,” he said.
Someone had tacked Papa John’s coupons on the laundry room bulletin board. Martin ripped them down and made the call. Time for someone else to do the driving for a change.
~ * * * ~
The next morning, Martin’s phone rang as the airport rose into view. He winced but answered.
“Where are you?”
“Two minutes out,” said Martin.
“Are you sure you can find me at this bustling international airport? I’m on the sidewalk outside—what is this?—Door 4? And I don’t think there is a Door 5.”
Rick was a beer keg of a man with graying red hair, squeezed into a department-store suit, towing a too-small carry-on—a Viking emasculated by the times. He stuck out his thumb as Martin rolled up to the curb.
“Truck looks good,” he said, opening the passenger door. Martin breathed a sigh of relief that he had pulled himself together enough last night to go wash and vacuum out the Screwmobile. He had stowed the radio box and otherwise made everything fleet inspection-worthy. “Driving okay?” Rick asked as they put his bag in the back.
“Well enough,” said Martin.
“Yep, had good luck with these Fords,” said Rick.
“Where are we going?” asked Martin.
“Thought we’d get some breakfast. We’ll go over the pitch and the materials, and then head out. Oh, but change of plans. No Billings today. Got a call from the Shipton’s people. Got to do them later. We’re going to Bozeman. Then up through Helena and Great Falls the next couple of days. We’ll do Billings later this week.”
“I’m not packed,” said Martin.
“Then I suggest you get packed,” said Rick.
~ * * * ~
“And that is how we do that,” Rick said as they emerged through the sliding glass doors of their first account in Bozeman. Martin agreed dutifully, but something told him that Julius had already signed his store up for FastLink long before Rick walked through the door. “It’s all about playing up the incentives.”
“Will corporate really sustain these kinds of discounts?” asked Martin.
“They will as long as everyone’s making money,” said Rick.
Martin gave corporate twelve months before they started rolling back the incentives. Someone had it all worked out. Step 1: Offer deep discounts to get stores to have minimum-wage stockers do the work of the account reps. Step 2: Scale back the number of account reps, get rid of the fleet of expensive trucks in exchange for freight services, and pass freight costs on to the customer. Step 3: Creep the prices back up to pre-discount levels. If done slowly enough, the stores wouldn’t even notice that they’d been shafted. Plus, with the high turnover at most stores, soon people wouldn’t even remember a time when a FastNCo. rep replenished the stock, or even that one had ever existed.
At the next store, Rick told the same lies to a different store manager. And then another. The last one pulled Martin aside after the meeting, while Rick used the restroom.
“Sounds like they’re putting you out of a job,” she said.
Martin paused to decide whether to toe the party line. “FastNCo. will always need a rep in Montana,” he replied.
“But will Montana always need a FastNCo. rep?” she asked. “They start jacking the prices back up, and I’ll be shopping for a different vendor.”
God, I need a new job, thought Martin.
Rick returned, rubbing his hands together. “Time for some lunch,” he said as they left. “Bozeman’s a college town. They got a Hooters, don’t they?”
“I think so,” said Martin.
“Good. Nothing beats an owl-themed restaurant.” Rick guffawed and, in the truck, poked at Martin’s GPS for directions.
Martin’s phone rang as he was pulling out of the store’s parking lot.
“Stewart?” he asked, answering.
“Martin.” Stewart’s voice was breathy and strained.
“Are you okay?” asked Martin. He gave Rick a shake of the head that it was nothing he needed to worry about.
“Laura won’t stop trying to feed me,” said Stewart.
“What’s going on?”
“Did Jeffrey call you?” asked Stewart.
“No,” said Martin. “Is he back?” The GPS told him to turn, and so did Rick. Martin turned.
“He’s still up there. But he called me,” said Stewart. “Gave me one last chance to give myself up and get my job back. I told him to go screw himself. But that’s it, Martin. He’s desperate. Chumpdark’s there, or close.”
“But with everyone out there, we can’t get through the…” Martin checked himself. “…out of Brixton without…” He couldn’t finish the sentence with Rick in the cab. “Right?”
“I know,” said Stewart. “I’m sorry, Martin. I should have listened to you. We could have figured out this plan a long time ago.” His voice quavered. Martin heard a woman’s voice in the background and imagined Stewart waving Laura away with those giant, thin-skinned hands. “I’m afraid it’ll be too late. I’m afraid of what they’ll do to Cheryl if they can’t send her back. I have to try and get her. You have to come back. You have the devices.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back up to Brixton,” said Martin, glancing at Rick.
“If we don’t get through the portal in the next twelve hours, Cheryl…” Stewart began to cough.
“I understand,” said Martin. “Okay. Leave it to me. I’ll see you soon.”
The GPS lady said, “Turn right in one thousand feet.”
But I don’t want to turn right in one thousand feet, thought Martin as he pulled up to a stoplight. Oh, all-knowing goddess of the dashboard, you who can direct me to any Hooters on the planet, I beg now for your wisdom.
Where do you want to go?
Brixton, Montana.
Location found. Brixton, Montana. In 2.3 miles, make a left turn onto I-90 West.
It’s not that easy. My boss wants to eat hot wings and stare at college girls in orange hot pants.
Location found. Hooters of Bozeman. Turn right in one thousand feet.
Maybe Rick would be reasonable if I explained the situation to him.
Location not found. Where do you want to go?
Brixton, Montana. And it’s very important.
Location found. Brixton, Montana. In 2.3 miles, make a left turn onto I-90 West.
Rick will never let me go.
Recalculating. In five hundred feet, explain how this destination will boost profits for the company in the long term.
That’s not why I have to get to Brixton.
Location found. Hooters of Bozeman. Turn right in one thousand feet.
I absolutely cannot go to Hooters of Bozeman.
Location found. Montana Department of Labor and Industry—Unemployment Division. Make a legal U-turn.
Soon enough, but first I need to get to Brixton, Montana, as fast as possible. It’s a life-or-death matter.
Location found. Brixton, Montana. In five hundred feet, turn to your right and tell Rick the truth.
I can’t tell him the truth or I’ll look like a lunatic.
Recalculating. In five hundred feet, change lanes and then lie.
You have arrived.
“Change of plans,” Martin said as the light turned green. “We really need to go to Brixton. Right now.” He tapped the dashboard clock for effect, head checked, and got out of the lane that would take them to Hooters.
“Brixton?” asked Rick.
“It’s a couple hours northeast. Little town,” said Martin.
“I know what it is. I’m wondering why we have to go there,” said Rick.
“That was someone from the co-op. I had talked to Lester, the manager, last night about
you being in the area, and about the FastLink system. He’s very interested, but he’s leaving town for a few days, so if we want to pitch to him, it has to be today.”
“I have appointments set up,” said Rick.
“I know. I’m sorry. But, listen, he knows every manager of every store in the northeast part of the state. So if we can sell him on this system, we’re in everywhere. Trust me. I know this territory.” And we can get on with putting me out of a job some other time.
“Turn right now,” said the GPS. Martin checked the gas gauge, and what remained of his Diet Mountain Dew. Both marginally adequate.
“But…” said Rick, looking back at the Hooters sign.
“Recalculating,” said the GPS. All that space-age technology wasted trying to get Rick back to Hooters, thought Martin. “Make a legal U-turn in three hundred feet,” it insisted.
Martin turned it off.
Chapter 22
There could be only one reason why someone was towing a Winnebago camp trailer to Brixton, Montana. Five other cars ground along between Martin’s truck and the camper, most with out-of-state license plates. Oregon. Washington. British Columbia. Nevada. No one was ever going to get by the camper on these hilly curves.
Rick drummed his fingers on the door, watching the scenery for now, placated by the promise of a welcome ear to pitch and a good little diner for a late lunch. Not so many owls at Herbert’s Corner, but you got a lot of food for the money. And they had good pie.
The gas light popped on with a friendly ding.
“It’s only a few more miles,” said Martin. What was he going to tell Rick when they got to Brixton? Martin couldn’t think of anything Lester wanted less than a PDA and a bunch of extra work. Lester probably kept a fifty-five-gallon drum of tar and a bag of feathers ready for salesmen who came ’round suggestin’ newfangled gadgets. There might even be a splintery rail and a couple of stout men at the ready. Martin wondered how quickly he could conjure up a convincing case of food poisoning, or Ebola.
A few minutes later, Highway 15 slowed to a crawl as they reached the edge of town. The Brixton Inn parking lot sagged under the weight of all the cars. A line trailed out the door of the market. “A motorcycle rally?” Rick guessed, pointing to the countless bikes outside the bar.
“I don’t know,” said Martin. He parked the Screwmobile around the back of the co-op, blocking the loading dock like no Waker had yet dared.
“Something’s definitely going on,” Rick called around the truck, pulling on his suit jacket as they dismounted.
“Lester’ll know,” said Martin.
People weren’t waiting in line to get into the co-op, but Geraldine, Cheryl’s replacement, had a queue a dozen deep buying everything from dog food to tarps. Jeffrey’s candy rack had been picked bare of everything but black licorice. Lester wasn’t at his desk in the second-floor office window.
Martin left Rick at the FastNCo. racks, ostensibly to find Lester, but possibly to bolt for the door, and broke into the line at the register to interrupt Geraldine.
“He’s not here,” she said. “They’ve been setting campfires down at Deaver Creek. The volunteer fire department called in all the reserves.”
Martin thanked Geraldine, and then the city-folk Wakers, who didn’t know any better than to build fires in a dry grassland.
“Bad news,” Martin told Rick.
Rick jabbed his thumb at a couple down the aisle. “They’re talking about extraterrestrials. What’s going on around here?”
“I don’t know, but Lester’s been called out. Volunteer fire department.”
“When’s he going to be back?” asked Rick. Martin shrugged.
Rick rolled his eyes. “Let’s at least get some lunch.”
They stopped in a bumper-to-bumper crawl that stretched all the way to the junction, where the Highway Patrol had set up some kind of roadblock. Pedestrians streamed past. Some wore shirtsleeves and flip-flops. Others had geared up for a night out in the mountains. A Montana Highway Patrol car had parked at an angle in the middle of the road, lights flashing. The patrolman was making sure drivers stayed in their lane. Martin rolled down the window as they crept by, but Rick leaned over and shouted his question first.
“What’s going on?”
“Lee Danvers has got the whole Waker Nation convinced there’s aliens coming to Earth down Highway 360.”
“Who’s…? What?”
“It’s a late-night radio show,” said Martin. “Can we get down 360?”
“I’m not going to stop you from walking, but nobody’s driving down there until everyone goes home,” the officer replied.
“We’re trying to get to Herbert’s Corner,” said Martin.
“Good luck with that.” The officer turned his attention to a car a few lengths back attempting to get out of line.
“Why do you want to go down 360?” asked Rick.
“That’s the way back to Billings,” said Martin. He checked his mirrors. Pedestrians on both sides, the patrol car, and as much traffic behind as ahead.
Twenty minutes later, Martin used the bulk of his loaded behemoth to forge a path across the highway into Herbert’s Corner.
Welcome to Herbert’s Corner Food and Fuel.
Step 1: That Toyota pickup is pulling out, and you’re much bigger than that Acura. The gas pump is yours.
Step 2: Ignore honks and stared daggers. Exit vehicle as quickly as possible and Select Pay at Pump/Credit or Pay Inside/Cash.
Step 3: Swipe card.
Credit, Debit, or Charge to the Company About to Phase You Out?
Would you like a receipt for the expense report you might never have to file? Y/N/HELL NO
Step 4: Select grade. Pick something and pick it now, because gas might get pretty scarce pretty quick in Brixton.
Step 5: Lift handle.
Step 6: Begin fueling. No smoking. Top off with every drop you can. Ignore shouts from driver angry that you’re blocking the driveway.
Herbert’s Corner had been turned into a first-world refugee camp. RVs and vans, pitched tents, stretched tarps, coolers, and barbeques. On the roof of almost every RV, people stood vigil with cameras or telescopes, binoculars, spotting scopes, and even rifles—all on tripods, all trained south. The usual distant rumble of truck traffic and the song of grasshoppers were overwhelmed by engines, horns, shouts, scanner static, and Lee Danvers’s voice over a hundred scattered radios.
“Gonna go get us a table,” said Rick, but he returned before the pump clicked off.
“Crowded?” asked Martin.
“Ha. Some old bird gave me the brush-off, told me they’re out of food,” said Rick. “The store was about cleaned out, too. This was a hell of a mistake, Martin. We’ve lost a half a day here. You got gas? Then let’s get back to Bozeman.” Rick slammed his door.
Martin maneuvered through the melee out to 15 toward Brixton. At the junction, a phalanx of Highway Patrol vehicles, barriers, and flashing construction message boards informed travelers that no way in hell should anyone expect to drive south on 360 today.
“I’ve got to make a stop,” said Martin.
“If you had to go…” said Rick.
“I need to see a friend. He’s sick.”
“No, we need to get back to Bozeman. I’m going to make a couple of calls—if we can even get cell service out here—and see if we can salvage any of this afternoon.”
Martin squeezed out into the line of traffic trickling toward Brixton. The bulging, infested town rolled closer and closer. As Rick made new plans with Bozeman, Martin heard sound and tone, but no meaning. The turn to Stewart’s crept nearer and nearer. Nearer and nearer. And then they were there.
I didn’t refill my Diet Mountain Dew, Martin thought, and then jerked the Screwmobile through a nonexistent gap between two oncoming cars. Finding an open lane ahead, he floored the accelerator.
Rick swore. “I told you we’re going back to Bozeman,” he said. “Martin?”
“It’s only
a mile up here,” said Martin.
“Fine. Ten minutes,” said Rick. “I mean it.” He got back on the phone. “Pete? You still there?”
Milton came out onto the steps as Martin rolled into the driveway.
“How is he?” Martin asked, and followed the neighbor inside.
“Laura’s been with him all day,” said Milton. “Tried to call him a doctor. But he refuses, and with everything going on in town…”
Laura had opened the curtains and the windows. Fresh air and sunlight found their way in but managed to avoid the bed and its occupant.
“Martin,” said Stewart.
“He’s been asking for you,” said Laura, turning down the radio chirping talk out of Billings.
“She took my phone away,” said Stewart.
“I couldn’t really talk anyway,” said Martin. “I was with my boss.” Stewart’s eyes landed on the doorway behind Martin.
“That him?” Stewart wheezed.
Rick filled the doorway like he planned to solve this problem once and for all, but seeing Stewart, he deflated.
“Stewart, Rick. Rick, this is Stewart,” said Martin.
“Hi,” Rick grunted.
“Jeffrey never called me,” Martin said. “What do you think that means?”
“Not sure,” Stewart said, then winced and wheezed hard. He swore.
“Tell me what to do. Please,” said Martin.
“Give us a minute,” said Stewart.
Rick protested, but Laura shooed him out and closed the door.
“You’ve got the devices?”
“They work. I hooked them up in my truck and got some kind of control screen,” said Martin.
“Good enough,” said Stewart. “Simple interface. Tap the icons. Can’t tell you more. I haven’t seen the darn thing since ’86.”
“But I can’t go…”
“Who else, Martin?” asked Stewart.
Martin hung his chin for a moment, and then sighed and nodded. “What am I going to find up there?”
“Jeffrey might still be there alone,” said Stewart. “Unless Chumpdark’s arrived. He’ll come with a little entourage. You’ll need this.”
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