Prodigal Blues

by Gary A Braunbeck

  "Ammonium-nitrate," I said aloud before realizing I'd done so.

  Christopher stopped pulling at the tire and stood up straight. "What was that?"

  Lying to him would have been futile. I nodded in the direction of the window. "The fertilizer. Ammonium-nitrate?"

  "What if it is?"

  "I'm assuming the barrel is filled with fuel oil?"

  "I'll ask again, what if it is?"

  "Gelatin and gasoline makes a handy napalm recipe."

  He stared. Even in this darkness, I could see the anger surfacing behind his gaze. "I might've read that somewhere, maybe."

  "The stuff around the lid—C4?"

  "Chalk up another one for the college man."

  "How did you get your hands on some C4?"

  "I didn't. Grendel did. He was planning to blast out a section of hillside on his property and build a Frank Lloyd Wright-style guest house for some of the… 'visitors'—for their private sessions. That's also how I got the dynamite and blasting caps. He had plans for all three floors, where the cameras and sound equipment would be installed. It was going to be really spiffy."

  "Uh-huh. What the fuck are you doing with a bomb?"

  "Don't sweat it, Pretty Boy; I haven't made the last few connections or activated the timer."

  "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

  "Ask Arnold—or wake up Rebecca and ask her. They helped me build it. Have you seen either of them getting skittish about things? It's not going to blow by accident. I was hoping you wouldn't find out about it, but since you have—yeah, we got a big old bomb that's going to make a big old boom and bring the walls a-tumbling down. So. What?"

  "So what the hell are you, planning to do with it, anyway?" Images of Oklahoma City and the first World Trade Center explosions kept presenting themselves to me with loud and bloody fanfare. "Christopher, I will do everything I can to help you guys get back home, but I will not go one more mile if you're planning to kill innocent—"

  "Oh, put the paranoia in park, pal. No one's going to blow up a church or preschool or soulless financial institution. We just want to make sure that when this is over, there's nothing left of this bus and trailer or the garbage inside of them. I already know the spot where I'm going to blow it up; nobody's lived there for twenty years—hell, probably nobody but me has even been near it for that long. Do we seem like terrorists to you?"

  "That may not be a good question to ask me, all things considered."

  "Fine. If you don't believe me, go ask Arnold and Rebecca. I promised them that when this was all over and done with, I'd take a shit in both these things and then blow 'em to hell ten different ways. Can you give me one good reason why things like these should be allowed to continue to exist? Knowing what's been done inside them, what they've been used for, the pain that's been inflicted on their floors and in their seats—knowing whose bodies are inside and what those sick bastards did while they were alive… can you give me one good goddamn reason why I shouldn't bomb the living fuck out of all of it?"

  I stared at him, then blinked, swallowed, found my voice. "No. No, I can't."

  "So?"

  "So… nothing. I'm sorry I doubted you. C'mon, let's get this tire off."

  "About time. Welcome to the same road trip, Mark."

  "Thank you."

  It took us another minute or so, but we at last got the tire free and set about changing the flat. Christopher was obviously tired, so after his third attempt to loosen the lugs, I handed him the flashlight. "You hold the light, I'll be quicker."

  "Fighting words if I ever heard them."

  "Don't start."

  "Just yanking your chain a little—I'm no hero, here, gimme the damned thing. I'll time you."

  "Three minutes," I said.

  "You're kidding?"

  "We'll see."

  I did it in two minutes, forty-eight seconds, a new personal record.

  "I am impressed," Christopher said. "He acts, he does windows, has a college degree, and can change a flat in under three minutes. If you weren't already spoken for I might propose to you myself right here and now."

  "I'm guessing a bigger man would find that flattering, but to tell you the truth, it's kinda creeping me out."

  "Then I haven't lost my touch."

  "Very funny."

  I was just finishing up with the jack when a Highway Patrol car came up alongside us and slowed to a stop. The rest happened so fast there wasn't time to panic: the officer on the passenger side rolled down his window, leaned out, and said, "Getting her fixed up all right?"

  "Ready to roll," I said.

  He looked at Christopher, then back at me, and said, "Those're a couple of classics you've got there."

  "Don't I know it. But try finding parts for 'em nowadays."

  "I can imagine. You fellahs need any kind of assistance?"

  Christopher and I looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads. "No," I said. "I think we're good to go."

  "All right. Drive carefully—and don't forget to extinguish those flares, all right?"

  "Will do."

  And away they drove.

  Just like that.

  "Half an hour," said Christopher. "Half an hour from now they won't even remember seeing us." He laughed, then shrugged. "Never fails."

  Until this moment, I hadn't believed him. But he was right; all they saw was the bus and trailer; there was no asking for names, no requesting to see a license and registration, no inquiries about what was in the trailer, other passengers in the bus, nothing: Hey, how are you, couple of classics, drive safely, bye-bye.

  Despite my initial rush of relief, somehow it didn't make me feel much safer.

  Christopher stomped out the flares, then just stood there staring up. "I'd forgotten how pretty the night sky can be," he whispered. "Look at all those stars." He shook his head. "I feel like I'm seeing all of this for the first time."

  "In a way, you are."

  He looked at me. "I think maybe you're right."

  I stood next to him, the both of us just enjoying the night air and the starry sky and the peace of it all. We could've just been two lifelong buddies on a road trip, getting away from the wives and kids for a week, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, if you believe the AAA literature.

  Our reverie was broken by the sound of someone pounding on a window of the bus; we turned to see Arnold climbing over to the driver's seat and opening the door. "You guys need to get in here," he said. "I think something's really wrong with Rebecca."

  "What? She got stomach pains again? What's she saying?"

  "She ain't saying nothing, man—I can't get her to wake up. And she feels cold."

  We threw down everything and jumped inside.

  I got to her first.

  Her skin was clammy and her breathing was slow and shallow. I tried some mouth-to-mouth but that didn't help.

  Christopher checked her pulse at the wrist and the neck. "Jesus Christ, it's slow."

  "How slow?" I asked.

  "What the hell difference does it make?—it's slow!"

  I pulled her up into a sitting position and began lightly slapping her face. "Rebecca, Rebecca, c'mon, honey, wake up. Wake up, c'mon, c'mon…"

  "What's wrong with her?" said Arnold. "I never seen her like this before."

  "Maybe all the pizza and pop made her sick," Christopher said. "Maybe—fuck, I don't know! Mark?" He sounded nearly hysterical. "Come on, college man, what is it? What's wrong with our Rebecca?"

  "She's really out of it, guys. God—her hands felt cold earlier, but now—"

  "She's been shaky all night," said Arnold.

  Christopher nodded. "I thought she was just wrecked, y'know? Coming down off all the adrenalin of the last few days or something."

  "No, this is a helluva lot more than just exhaustion, it has to be"—then I remembered what she'd said back at the truck stop: Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—

  "Her insu
lin," I said. "When's the last time she had a shot?"

  Arnold and Christopher looked at each other, and I knew before either of them even shook their heads that they had no idea.

  …sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good…

  "Get her insulin kit," I shouted. "Christ only knows how long she's needed it."

  Arnold looked around frantically. "Where's it at?"

  "Find it!"

  "If I knew where she kept it—"

  I took a deep breath and swallowed my own panic before it had a chance to get out of the gate. "In her cooler, the little one that she carries with"—and then a terrible thing occurred to me. "Oh, no…"

  Christopher and Arnold both froze.

  For one second I was so stunned by the thought I almost couldn't form words.

  "What?" shouted Christopher, definitely closer to hysteria now. "What is it?"

  I closed my eyes and thought about saying a prayer. "The refrigerator."

  "What?"

  "The refrigerator back in the motel room. Did anyone see Rebecca take her cooler out of the refrigerator back in the motel room?"

  I didn't have to open my eyes to see their faces; I knew. As Christopher had been pushing me out the door, I'd known we were forgetting something, I just couldn't say what.

  I opened my eyes. Rebecca's pulse and breathing were even slower. I decided a quick prayer was in order, after all. "Please God, tell me that you guys have an extra insulin kit stashed in one of the drug cases."

  After a moment of silence where I swear I could hear all the cells in our bodies jumping up and down and pulling out their hair while yelling "shit, Shit, SHIT !" at the top of their lungs, Arnold shook his head. "She never… she never trusted us with any of her medicine. Said we'd forget our heads if they weren't screwed on." His lower lip trembled. "She carried all of it in that cooler of hers."

  "All of it? Everything?'

  "Everything!" snapped Christopher, his voice breaking on the last syllable. He reached out an unsteady hand to brush away some hair from her face. "Oh, God…." It was at this moment that I realized how deeply he loved all of them; a father standing over his child's deathbed could not have been more wracked with sorrow and grief and helplessness. It was the first moment of genuine vulnerability I'd seen in him. He had not planned on this—after all, Rebecca was the responsible one; nurse, seamstress, booster-of-morale, maker-of-peace.

  I released my breath, pulled in another, slower one. "Guys, we have to get her to a hospital."

  "No!" Christopher was screaming now. "We're not taking her to any goddamn place where they're going to stick her with things and s-strap her down on a t-table and put her under… under b-b-bright l-lights and… and…"

  I reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing it as hard as I could. "Calm down, buddy. Listen to—look at me. Look at me! That's right, now take a deep breath, pal, that's it. Now, listen to me, Christopher—listen: if we don't get her some medical attention, and fast, she's going to go into a full-blown coma and will quite probably die, and she's come too far and been through too much for us to allow that to happen, got me?"

  He nodded his head but said nothing; tears spattered from his eyes onto my sleeve.

  "Give me the cell phone."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, flipped it open, and handed it to me.

  I punched in 911. The emergency operator answered before the first ring was completed.

  "Emergen—"

  That was all she got out before the phone fizzled. I jerked it away from my face, glared at it like that would coerce it into cooperating, then shook it just because I was. So. Fucking. Angry.

  "Oh, this ain't happening," said Arnold. "Uh-huh, not now, not now, not when we're so close!"

  I tried the phone again, but its charge was a fond memory. "It's gone."

  Arnold took it from my hand, shook it once, held it to his ear. "Don't those emergency operators call right back if there's a hang-up?"

  Christopher yanked the phone away. "And how the fuck are we supposed to answer?"

  I held up my hand. "Knock it off, guys—look, we're screwed as far as the phone goes. Christopher, you need to get us rolling and I mean right the hell now! Go on! Go!"

  He climbed into the front seat and fired up the engine.

  "You got an idea?" asked Arnold. "Please tell me you got an idea, college man."

  "Bring up the route map on the computer as quick as you can."

  Christopher pulled back onto the highway so fast the tires squealed and even left a smoke trail; no small feat, considering what we were hauling; Arnold woke the computer and called up the map; I tried mouth-to-mouth on Rebecca once again because I couldn't just sit there and do nothing.

  Arnold asked me, "What now?"

  "Grendel's got every other thing marked on there, he's gotta have some hospitals—for chrissakes he grabbed Thomas in an emergency room, you can't tell me he doesn't have a few locations bookmarked."

  Arnold stared at the screen. "I, uh…"

  "What?"

  He made two fists and slammed them against his forehead. "I don't remember where we are."

  "Just outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana," shouted Christopher.

  Arnold took a deep breath and steadied himself. "All right. Gimme the next exit number."

  "112, one mile."

  "I-69 North, right?'

  "What?"

  "We're on I-69 North, right?"

  "I guess—"

  "—the fuck do you mean, you guess?—"

  "—mean… I mean yes, yeah—I-69 North."

  "How far to exit 112?"

  "It's right ahead!" shouted Christopher, triumphant.

  "Floor this bad boy, big brother—we need exit 116."

  "Shit!"

  Christopher floored it. The drive between exits 112 and 113 took about seven years, give or take a month. Rebecca's body heat kept fading. I propped up her legs and covered her with the blanket, my coat, Arnold's coat, then, finally, my own body.

  "Exit 116, Christopher."

  "I got it! What's the map say, how far?"

  Arnold did some quick scrolling, double-checked what he found. "Five miles from 113."

  "Hang on." He shifted gears and kicked us into a higher and much harder speed.

  Rebecca's breathing was so slow it was almost nonexistent; but I still kept up the mouth-to-mouth; these guys had it together, they were back in control of themselves, they were a unit, I'd just be in the way.

  "C'mon, honey," I whispered to her still, chill form. "Can't do this to us now, you haven't seen me do my Tommy Lee Jones routine yet." I touched her forehead, her cheek, felt for a pulse. Going… going… going…

  "Three miles!" shouted Christopher.

  Outside, the world was a messy blur. We were flying. I hoped Christopher could keep a solid grip on the wheel; one slip and this whole mess would jackknife like nobody's business and we'd be a messier blur than the world whizzing past. Probably leave a nastier stain, too.

  "What do I do after the exit?" called Christopher over his shoulder.

  "Turn left—that's Dupont Road. The hospital'll be about a half-mile down."

  "How's she doing, Mark?"

  "Not good. Can you make this thing go any faster?"

  Christopher laughed. Once. Very softly. "Just watch."

  I would never have believed something as old and cumbersome as a VW Microbus could come close to breaking the sound barrier, but that's how it seemed during the next two minutes; the road out there didn't exist; the other cars and trucks were an optical illusion; we were invisible to the police and Highway Patrol; the road bowed before us, bested, apologetic, humbled. The exit sign appeared in the headlight beams.

  "You need to slow down now," I said.

  "Fuck you, Pretty Boy!"

  Now it was my turn to scream. "IF YOU DON'T SLOW DOWN WE'LL NEVER MAKE THE GODDAMN TURN IN ONE PIECE! I DON'T FEEL LIKE DYING TODAY! ALL IN FAVOR?"
/>   Arnold and I raised our hands. I raised Rebecca's, which was technically cheating but right now I didn't care.

  Christopher shifted gears and eased us back to something resembling mortal speeds. We made the exit and didn't jackknife on the turn, and you never heard three people sigh so loudly in unison as we did when the "Dupont Hospital" sign loomed as high and bright as the Star of Bethlehem.

  "There," I said, pointing. "There's the emergency room entrance."

  "Where?"

  "On the left."

  "The left?"

  "Right."

  "Go right?"

  "The left—right there!"

  "Right?"

  "LEFT!"

  This was not the time for an Abbott & Costello routine.

  Christopher started to go right, corrected himself, and just made the left-side entrance toward the emergency room. We pulled up a few yards outside the ambulance bay. Arnold had the side doors thrown open before the bus came to a complete stop. I started to pick up Rebecca and was surprised at how much she weighed; this girl had some muscle on her.

  "What type of diabetes does she have?"

  Christopher stared at me. "There are different types?"

  "Oh, fuck me…"

  "Her bracelet," said Arnold.

  "What?"

  "It's on her bracelet, the one she wears around her ankle."

  All three of us lunged for her legs at the same time; Christopher knocked me sideways into Arnold, who fell forward onto Christopher, pulling him the rest of the way over the seat, causing me to drop Rebecca, who flopped down onto the floor and Arnold was so busy trying to avoid stepping on her that he accidentally kneed me in the nuts and about two seconds later we'd switched from Abbott & Costello to the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera because we were suddenly this mass of groaning, cursing, flailing bodies trying to untangle ourselves from one another, but untangle ourselves we did, pulling back both of Rebecca's pants legs—to discover no medical bracelet on either ankle.

  "This isn't happening," I muttered.

  "You bet your ass it ain't," said Arnold, snatching something off the floor near my foot. "Here it is. Must've fell off during the orgy."

  I took it from him, picked up Rebecca again, jumped out onto the sidewalk, hit the pavement running, dodged an old man in wheelchair being pushed by a younger woman who gave me the dirtiest look, squeezed past another young woman who was coming out with her little boy in her arms (his arm was bandaged; I hoped it wasn't serious), elbowed my way ahead of a balding, overweight security guard who looked like he was about to flirt with the desk-nurse, and shouted: "I NEED HELP! THIS GIRL IS DYING! HELP!"