When It Rains

by Joel Shaw

  "Go faster. I'm worried about Redwing."

  Sheila smiled. "Here we go." She applied more pressure to the accelerator until they were rolling at forty-five miles an hour. "Look, no hands," Sheila squealed. "You wanted faster, how's this?"

  "This is scaring the pee out of me." Amber gripped the door handle with her right hand and the seat belt strap with her left hand. She closed her eyes, fearing a collision or some terrible calamity. Nothing happened. They smiled. The Fury sailed silently across the Minnesota landscape.

  “There’s Y in the tracks.” Sheila turned off the engine, gently applying the brakes until they came to a stop.

  "Find the ID card. It's in my pack."

  Amber rummaged inside the pack, withdrawing the dead man's ID card and badge. "His name was Leon. Sergeant Leon Turner." She turned the three inch by four inch card over and swiped her finger across the power icon. The ghostly glow of the blue LED screen lit the interior of the car.

  "This thing has more functions than a spaceship. Look it even has a browser. I thought the internet was dead."

  "The internet is dead. Find the GPS. Hurry. For all we know, alarms could be going off at Black Swan headquarters."

  Amber toggled through the menu until she found the GPS function and selected it. The GPS was much quicker than the old school variety traded to the Scarlets. A satellite image of their exact location quickly appeared on the screen. Amber zoomed in and they could see a dot on railroad tracks. She scrolled along the tracks in question.

  "That's a dead end." She zoomed out and scrolled along their current course. "If we stay on these tracks, they'll take us to St. Cloud. Look, Anoka, Big Lake, and then St. Cloud."

  Sheila was looking at the spot. "Zoom in again." Amber touched the zoom icon. "Is that our car?" Her voice was high pitched.

  "You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

  Sheila turned on the car’s headlights. Seconds later, the spot on the map emitted a dim, green glow. She turned the headlights off; the light disappeared.

  "This is real time. That's our car on the map. Oh Shit. We can see ourselves."

  “That means they can see us, too." Amber hissed. She knew they had made a huge mistake. A heavy dose of epinephrine coursed through her veins, guiding her instincts.

  "Get rid of that thing. Now." Sheila screamed.

  "I am." Amber stepped from the car and with one quick motion she placed the ID card on the rail, pulled the Tazer from it's holster, removed the cartridge, and stunned the card to death.

  "Leon has left the universe." She jumped in the front seat. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  "I heard that." Sheila fired up the slant-six and gradually increased speed. She looked in the side mirror. In the distance...were those flashing blue lights. She pumped more go juice into the Fury's carburetor. Soon they were doing fifty-five miles an hour through Anoka. They sat low in the car, windows up, like teenagers in a stolen car. Sheila kept her eyes on the rear-view mirrors. Waiting for a missile to roar out of the sky and consume them in an exploding fireball. Nothing happened. Her logic gates opened. If the Swans had the backing of the Army, they would have been blown off the tracks by now. Maybe the Swans didn't have the connections that she imagined. Maybe they were just a rogue group of mercenaries whom wouldn't be missed. Like the scarlet gang. Poof, they’re gone. Who cares? That’s the way it appeared. No one had searched the blue freight train. What were the chances of that? If the Swans were organized and connected to national security or some other government agency, the train would have been stopped and searched long ago. Who was driving the train?

  "That's what I want to know."

  Amber's head cleared. "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Who's driving the blue train? Why hasn't anyone stopped it or searched it? Why haven't the Black Swans looked for their missing men?"

  "I don't know?"

  "I don't either, but I'm going to find out." Sheila applied more pressure to the gas pedal."

  Amber looked at the odometer; seventy miles an hour.

  "Slow down, Sheila."

  "No. We have a train to catch."

  Amber was at a loss for words. She strapped the seatbelt around her waist, braced her hands against the dashboard, and closed her eyes. "If I knew how to pray, I would be praying."

  Sheila didn't speak. She was focused on two distant red dots hovering in the distance over the rails. Soon, she was sure they had caught their train.

  "Amber. Open your eyes. That's our train, isn't it?"

  "Turn on the headlights."

  "Bad idea. The engineer, or whoever is in that locomotive would see them. I'm going to get closer."

  "Be careful."

  Sheila slowed the Fury, matching the speed of the train, then slowly closed the gap. When they were about five feet from the car she turned on her headlamp. Amber did the same. The could see the distinctive blue color of the containers reflected in their lights.

  "That's it." Sheila was all smiles. "I feel like James Bond."

  "Who's that?"

  Sheila laughed. "Never mind. Now we have to get on that train."

  "Wait until it stops."

  Sheila shook her head. "What if it doesn't stop? We can't be rolling along behind it in daylight? Besides, we have a limited amount of fuel. It’s now or never.”

  "You want to get on it now? While it's moving?"

  Sheila nodded, a mischievous grin spread across her face. Her large, blue eyes sparkled like polished sapphires.

  "You have lost your mind, girl."

  "Like I said, I feel like James Bond."

  "Was he insane?”

  "No, he was clever and daring."

  "Oh no." Amber looked at the wild pilot currently controlling her destiny.

  "You better tell me what's going through that red head of yours."

  "I'm thinking. If we can find something to hold the gas pedal in position. We can move our gear to the roof, climb out the window, move our gear to the hood and toss it on the rear of that car, then climb on board. How does that sound?" She grinned. "No don't tell me. Let's just go for it. If we think about it too long, we probably won't do it."

  "Is that what James Bond would do?"

  "Hell yeah. Then he would climb over the cars until he reached the locomotive and toss the engineer out the door."

  "So that's your plan?"

  "That's my plan."

  "Oh no."

  "Let's do it, Amber. Look for something to hold the gas pedal in position.

  Amber shown her light on the floor behind the front seat. Skinny's collectable car was full of trash. She jumped into the back seat and cranked down the rear window, tossing the paper, cans and bottles out the window. Nothing. She reached under the front seat and felt the end of a pipe. "I found a piece of pipe."

  "Let me have it." Sheila tested it for length.

  "It's too long. Anything else back there?"

  Amber searched farther under the seats.

  "Nothing."

  "Move, I'm climbing into the back."

  "Wait a second. Give me the pipe." Amber grabbed the pipe and with one fierce blow, shattered the large rear window.

  "Exit to the rear."

  Sheila took her foot off the accelerator and scrambled over the front seat. She pressed one end of the pipe against the gas pedal until the front end of the cars was inches away from the train's back door.

  "Cut a slot in the seat so I can stick this end in. Be careful, don't cut me."

  Amber removed her fillet knife from its sheath at the small of her back. "You told me never to use my knife for this sort of thing." She grinned.

  "Smart ass, come on, hurry up."

  Amber made an incision a little narrower than the diameter of the pipe in the thick, foam-rubber seat cushion.

  "Try that."

  Sheila jammed the end of the pipe in the slit and let go. The Fury's hood slammed against the railroad car’s coupler.

  "Let's go, this may be the only chance we get."


  Amber was ahead of her, their gear was on the trunk lid. She rolled out the back window and transferred the gear to the roof and then the hood. Sheila held the pipe in place until Amber had everything on the narrow ledge behind the blue container. She gave Sheila a thumbs up.

  Sheila let go of the pipe, kicked open the driver's door, using the window as a step she slithered onto the hood. She lost her footing momentarily, sliding back against the windshield, and grabbed a windshield wiper out of desperation. Amber held her hand out and coaxed Sheila forward to the front bumper. With a burst of energy and an involuntary scream, Amber pulled Sheila forward onto the train. They clung to each other, hearts pounding. They watched the Plymouth Fury grind into the coupler for several seconds before the steering wheel rotated suddenly, sending the Fury somersaulting like a spastic acrobat into the ditch.

  "Just like James Bond?" Amber asked.

  "Nope, It would have blown up." Sheila smiled. "Let's go find Redwing."

  "That was one of the scariest and coolest things I've ever done." Amber squeezed Sheila's arm.

  "Likewise."

  Like James Bond, they climbed up and over five cars, pausing at the blue crypt containing Leon and the other dead guy.

  The stench of rotting flesh seeped through the door cracks.

  "I was going to get some of their gear.” Sheila gagged. “I just changed my mind." They proceeded forward, climbing over the next car that contained the portable bottling plant and hopefully Redwing.

  They heard nothing as they jumped to the deck from the top of the container.

  "Redwing. Here boy." Redwing lay stretched full length against the containers doors. He tried to stand, but hadn't the strength. His tail flopped once, like he was waving goodbye.

  "He's going to die." Amber cradled the head of the weak dog in her lap. Redwing sniffed and licked her grease stained pocket.

  "I forgot about the meat! Do you believe I still have that meat in my pocket?"

  "Redwing believes it. Don't give it all to him,” Sheila cautioned. “He might choke on it."

  "I won't. Here boy. This is for you."

  They sat together nursing Redwing, feeding him bits of food and small amounts of water. As the epinephrine metabolized in their bodies, they both fell into a deep, sound sleep. Redwing nestled in the warmth of the human cocoon, stirring occasionally, disturbed by intermittent howls of the locomotive’s whistle.

  CHAPTER 19 - May 9 - Saint Cloud

  Harold Cooke drank the last of his warm mint tea, pausing momentarily, allowing the lingering drop to moisten his dry lips. He leaned forward in his office chair to get a closer look at the ten inch monitor mounted on the left-hand side of his desk.

  “Hey Milt, I think I'm seeing things? Come here for a sec and look at this. I swear that the jet stream has moved south over night, and it looks like it’s bringing some moisture with it. I might be hallucinating. Come here.”

  Milton thrust himself from his desk, the office chair's wheels rolled along permanent depressions in the composite tile floor made by thousands of such trips to and from Harold’s desk. He adjusted his glasses, looking closely at the satellite image. “You may be right, you may be wrong. The scale is so small I wouldn’t venture a guess.”

  Harold countered. “I think that low-pressure system is moving south. Look at this image I captured yesterday.” Harold toggled the display. “See here. Yesterday this system was a little north of Saskatchewan, see. Keep your eyes focused on this spot and I’ll switch back to today’s image. See that? Check it out man. The jet stream moved south about one-hundred miles give or take. You see that?”

  “I see it Harold and we’ve seen it before.” Milt rolled back to his desk and switched on his weather radio. The computerized voice of Donna filled the small office: “ ...transmitting on a frequency of 162.4. Today: Clear. Chance of precipitation one percent. Wind west northwest 15 kilometers per hour. High forty celsius. Tonight ten. One percent chance of precipitation. Partly cloudy. Wind gusting northwest 5 to 10 kilometers per hour becoming west 15 kilometers per hour near midnight. Low 10...”

  Harold was effusive, “You hear that Milt? Chance of rain ONE percent? How long has it been since we’ve heard any chance of rain in a forecast?

  “You know damn well it’s been eleven years since we’ve had a drop of rain. Everybody in the state knows that. Hell everyone in the country knows that. Goddamn God even knows that.”

  Harold toggled back and forth between the images. “It’s moving. By God, it’s moving south, Milton.”

  Milton glanced at the barometer; 29.80. No change. He gave it a tap, nothing. He watched Harold run through the maintenance shed, out the twelve foot overhead door and into the field that separated the shed from the nature preserve. Harold began spinning in circles, hands held high. A human pinwheel. “Must be doing a rain dance,” Milton mumbled. He followed, managing a fast walk which was a close as he ever came to running. He avoided Harold’s celebration, continuing to a shaded bench that faced northwest. “If rain is coming, I want to see it coming. I want to feel it on my face. I want to smell it.” He scanned the horizon, looking for the telltale stratocumulus clouds that would bring rain. Nothing. He looked North, squinting behind the scratched lenses of his glasses. He thought he could see some Cirrus clouds to the North...nothing unusual.

  “Barometer is holding steady, Harold. You must be dreaming.” He was yelling. Holding the barometer over his head like as an offering. Wanting to believe. Wanting rain. Needing rain. Tasting rain.

  Harold stopped spinning and stumbled to where Milton was sitting. “Let’s go down to DB’s, this is big news. This is real big news. This is breaking news, Milt.” Harold began spinning again. Counterclockwise this time.

  “If it hasn’t broke already. You’re not the only one in town that listens to the NOAA weather channel twenty-four hours a day. In fact, I’ll bet Faye has already spread the news. She has a monitor in her kitchen, and a radio near the register.”

  “I know,” Harold said. “She doesn’t pay attention to the monitor, though. She only looks at it while she’s in the kitchen.” Harold wanted to be the first to spread the news. He wanted to justify the hundreds, no thousands, of hours that he had spent staring at the small solar powered monitor that displayed Polar satellite images from The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

  “Maybe.” The mention of a kitchen made Milton’s stomach growl. He was hungry. The small salad that he and Harold ate for breakfast did not give him the satisfying feeling of being full. Harold had to remind Milton daily that the salads were supplemental and not meant to fill him. “Salads have essential nutrients, Milt.”

  "Whatever." Milton couldn't care less about essential nutrients, he wanted some saturated fats.“I hope Faye has come up with a new dish.”

  Milton was distracted by his appetite. He had lost one-hundred and twenty-five pounds since the drought began in 2029. He longed for the day when he could sit down and eat two quarter-pound cheeseburgers, a super-sized portion of french fries and a root-beer float. He knew his current weight of one-hundred and sixty pounds was optimal for his five foot nine inch height, but he was hungry all the time. “I’d rather die fat than healthy,” he said as he straddled his bicycle.

  “I rather die wet than dry,” Harold exclaimed. “Let’s go guy.”

  The riders pedaled east on the bike trail that paralleled a once traffic-choked County Highway 137 over which thousand of families highway had walked, ridden or drove from the Dakotas, Montana, Nebraska, and Wyoming and the West Coast on their way to the Great Lakes region. The promise land.

  The bicycle path had heaved and cracked over the years, but it was in much better condition than the cratered and fractured road surface which offered little resistance to invading weeds, shrubs and trees, all uniquely decorated with wind-blown debris. The only trucks using the highway these days were owned by Black Swans.

  Harold and Milton peddled the three and a half miles to DB
Searle’s in silence. Harold thought about the low-pressure system; Milton thought about Faye’s cooking.

  #

  Harold and Milton parked their bikes in the rack outside of oldest restaurant in town and walked through the doors.

  “Hi Faye, I see you have all the old roosters in the house. Hey John, Mark, Ernie, Walt, don’t you guys have anything better to do than to pester the cook? Harold was affable today; more so than usual. “Any of you fellas heard the forecast, today?

  “Sure we have,” Walt said. Walt was the spokesperson for the group of regulars. A belligerent man with a know-it-all attitude. “They predict dry and hot today, tomorrow, and the next day. The seven day forecast is for more of the same; dry and hot.”

  Milton filled a stained mug with watery coffee while Harold, like a ringmaster under the big top, proceeded to prime his audience for the main attraction; his weather prediction. Milton ignored him. He was eyeing two kettles on the counter, one labeled rice, the other beans, ruined the moment.

  “I’m sick of rice and beans. I’d rather eat acorns.” Milton exclaimed. He and everyone else had been eating rice and beans every day for seven years and wished something else would magically appear in the kettles. “You wouldn’t happen to have any meatballs in your freezer, would you Faye?” His stomach was audibly growling.

  Faye Searles had tired of Milton’s constant complaining years ago.

  “Milton Hollis, that freezer has not worked since the lights went out in two-thousand and fifty-one. What I have to cook is rice and beans. Rice imported from China and beans imported from Brazil. I have Spring Herb Rice, Garlic Rice, Fried Rice and all the rice and bean combinations that you have eaten. And, Milton, If you want desert I have spiced Rice Pudding. Now sit down and eat some beans or rice, or both. Just quit complaining. Please.”

  Milton sat down at the table with the regulars with a bowl of rich and beans.

  “Pass the salt.” He took a bite, contorting his face as he swallowed. “We’re treated like refugees out here. I don’t believe that FEMA is out of everything but rice and beans. The rich bastards are getting all of it. Sitting in their castles over there in The Colonies eating peaches and cream. Why don’t we get any of the good food?”