The Back Door Man

by Dave Buschi

  Which was fine as far as Sue was concerned. She preferred it that way. But she didn’t want that life for her daughters. If she could have, she’d have wrapped a bubble around their house to keep Katie and Hannah safe. Luckily, she and James saw eye to eye on how they wanted to bring up their girls. They’d done everything they could to insulate their daughters from the realities out there.

  The girls were limited to what they could watch on TV. Only an hour a day and the shows were carefully vetted. Hannah was all about Speed Racer, which of course, she couldn’t watch. The show was too violent. Car crashes at every turn, the characters hitting each other—it was unbelievable really. Sue had bought the video at James’s urging. He was a big fan of the TV show when he was growing up.

  When they began watching it with their daughters, they’d cringed seeing its content and turned it off. Sue wanted to throw it away, but James had convinced her to keep it. “Hannah will be old enough in a year or so. I loved Speed Racer, saw it all the time, and didn’t grow up violent.” Which was true. James was a complete softie. You wouldn’t think he had a violent bone in his body. If she didn’t know him like she did, she never would have believed he’d boxed and gone to school on a wrestling scholarship, owing to having been a high school All-American.

  The phone rang and interrupted Sue from her thoughts.

  It was Ellen from the Neighborhood Association. There was going to be an emergency meeting in one of the cul-de-sacs. Sue had barely put the phone down when it rang again. This time it was Enrique.

  Enrique worked with James. He’d been over for dinner once. His family lived abroad. James, as his manager, had taken him under his wing. He seemed to be a good kid and the girls had enjoyed meeting him. It was unusual for him to call.

  “He’s not home, yet?” Enrique said. He sounded worried.

  Sue said no, and Enrique let her know that ComTek had closed this morning. “If you can, please have him call me. It’s very important.”

  Sue said she would and put the phone down. She stood there in a partial daze. She couldn’t help it; panic began to set in. Something must have happened to James. This wasn’t like him. He called every day to let her know what time he’d be coming home.

  She reminded herself that he had called; so that meant at least he hadn’t had a horrible accident. Maybe he was just having car trouble, which was bad since she couldn’t go to help him if she didn’t know where he was. But still, car trouble was better than other alternatives.

  Sue was still standing there, when the phone rang again. The caller ID read: ‘wireless caller’, which was what it read when James called from his cell phone. She picked up the phone quickly.

  “James!”

  There was a pause. “Sue?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?”

  “Sue, it’s Dad, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I’m worried about you and the girls with what’s going on.”

  Sue snapped back an answer. She was annoyed that he suddenly would care about her and the girls now. She hung up shortly, emotions rising. She dialed James’s number and got his voicemail again.

  She wanted to scream, but Katie beat her to it. “MOM!”

  Sue pulled it together and went upstairs to play referee.

  12

  JAMES stared at his gas gauge. He was at a dead stop. In front of him was an endless row of vehicles, none of which were moving. There must be an accident or obstruction ahead.

  He had absolutely no idea where he was. Presumably, he was still a long way from home; he wasn’t even sure he was going the right way. He hadn’t seen an Interstate or exit he recognized. Now stuck here, he was going to run out of gas, yet again, in some no-man’s land.

  The delivery truck in front of him hadn’t budged one inch. In the lane next to him, up two cars, a man had stepped from his car. James could see others in his rearview mirror that had done the same. Someone was pointing into the sky.

  James looked out his window and saw planes. Lots of planes. They seemed to be circling.

  He stared at them. He counted over a dozen and could see dots, which hinted of more. They were jumbo jets, passenger planes; thousands of people circling, stuck in their own sort of hell.

  James glanced at the gaping hole on his dash where his radio used to be. Those kids had pried it out—something he hadn’t noticed till he’d left. He’d first panicked seeing his radio gone. He knew that meant it was back at the scene of the crime. He thought of driving back, but he wasn’t even sure how to get back.

  And even if he could, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them again. Dead. In those pools of blood. Those poor kids.

  He still couldn’t believe it. He felt in a daze, everything hazy. He’d passed strange sights. Buildings burning, groups of people milling around. And now these airplanes in the sky.

  What he wouldn’t do to know what was going on. He looked at the tinted windows of the car next to him. They were the opaque kind where you couldn’t see anything inside. He motioned for the driver to put his window down. Either the driver didn’t see him, or was ignoring him.

  His gaze went back to the planes. He thought of his wife and girls and wished he was home right now. The truck in front of him moved an entire foot and stopped.

  He cursed and surprised himself with his own voice. He was going to go crazy sitting here. He picked up some of the papers that had spilled from his glove compartment box. It didn’t make any sense to tidy his car, but if he didn’t do something he was going to explode. Any moment he expected to hear the tell-tale knocking sound from his engine before it just conked out.

  He put the papers back in the glove box. Something was sticking out from under his passenger seat. It was a cord of some sort. He pulled it out and realized what it was. It was the charging cord for his Blackberry.

  It took a moment for it to register.

  His charging cord!

  He quickly grabbed his Blackberry. He fumbled with it and plugged the cord into its side. He inserted the charger end into his car’s charging port.

  Now he just had to wait.

  That shouldn’t be a problem.

  A sedan went by on the shoulder. It was followed by another car. James looked in his rearview mirror. He could see other cars were getting the same idea. He looked at the stopped truck in front of him that was going nowhere. He knew it was breaking the rules and was probably a traffic violation, but at this point he didn’t care. He turned his wheel and eased onto the shoulder.

  There was no need to press on the gas. It was creep speed only, stop and go. The shoulder got roomier further ahead. James drove over chunks of rubber. An entire tire from some semi-trailer was littered all over the shoulder. Its shredded remnants scraped his undercarriage.

  Cringing, he expected to blow a tire or have his muffler shorn off. He drove over what looked to be a highway sign and further on what looked to be part of a pick-up truck’s liner bed. Ahead, a white garbage bag, still full of garbage, was trailing from under a car, leaving a trail of refuse.

  He glanced down at his fuel gauge. The needle was into empty. In that split second a Bronco that was stuck behind a semi-trailer made a move for it. James was almost clipped as it surged onto the shoulder. The Bronco hit something. It bounced a few times, but didn’t stop. James looked for what it had hit, but only saw gravel and asphalt. The driver of the semi-trailer blew his horn. He realized the Bronco must have clipped the semi-trailer as it pulled out.

  He could almost smell the desperation in the air, mixed with the rank stench of vehicle exhaust and miserable heat. He was sticky with old sweat and dehydrated. He didn’t dare use his A/C so as to conserve gas. His windows were down, but only seemed to bring in waves of carbon monoxide and heat. James felt weak and dizzy. His mouth was parched. What he wouldn’t do for a sip of water.

  As he passed a mile marker, a red light on his dashboard blinked. It was his fuel warning light.

  Oh shit
.

  He kept going, his view taken up by the Bronco’s wide body. A bumper sticker that said ‘Jesus loves you’ was on its spare wheel cover.

  The Bronco stopped. After what seemed forever it began to move again. He saw an exit sign, which said a mile to go, and hope, though brief, surged inside him. It wasn’t an exit he knew, but it didn’t matter. Just so long as he didn’t conk out on this shoulder.

  James followed the Bronco. Drivers were honking. People two lanes over who were stuck, unable to make a move for the shoulder, were out of their cars, or in their cars trying to merge. James saw what looked like black smoke billowing up into the sky.

  He kept going. His fingers clenched on his steering wheel. The smoke seemed to be from further ahead.

  The Bronco began to pull slightly over. The shoulder was opening up. A red car elbowed its way in, then another car. It almost clipped him. James narrowed-up his distance. Anything more than half a car’s length was asking for others to surge out in front of him.

  The red warning light on his dashboard seemed to shout at him. He knew he was on borrowed time. When it came on earlier, it took about fifteen minutes before his car just died. Knowing it was ridiculous, but still thinking it, he blamed the manufacturers of his car. What type of warning was fifteen minutes? As if fifteen minutes could get you anywhere.

  Several cars were pulling off. James followed, driving over gravel and grass. Then he was on asphalt again and realized it was an exit lane.

  Please…

  The cars slowed and then stopped. Oh shit, not again.

  A minute later they were moving again. James held his breath. Their speed, which was only a snail’s crawl, picked up some. His speedometer went from zero to five. He had to tap the gas pedal to keep up.

  James passed a broken down car with steam fuming from its hood. That was going to be him any second now. He prayed there was an open gas station up ahead. He was doing ten miles an hour now, which upped to fifteen. The exit lane merged onto a two lane road. There was an accident that had bottlenecked the road to the left, explaining why they were merging now without having to stop.

  James didn’t recognize the area. It was another part of the city he’d never been in. There were construction barricades along the shoulder. He could see an enormous structure off to the left, which appeared to be a prison. It was about eight stories tall and its windows were just narrow slits. James scanned for a gas station and thought he saw one ahead.

  The traffic light turned red and James had to stop. He considered running the light, but put that thought aside. There were bound to be police around here. Last thing he needed was to get a ticket. He’d run out of gas just waiting for them to write him up.

  An urge he’d been ignoring came to the forefront. He needed to go the bathroom badly. What next? Hives? He felt like screaming in frustration.

  Trying to concentrate on something other than his bladder, he focused on his surroundings. There seemed to be lots of people on either side of the road. Some were walking, while others were running. A good number of them seemed to be wearing the same outfits; jumpsuits of some sort.

  James looked back at the prison. Was that a wail of a siren? He looked at the men in orange jumpsuits.

  His car door was yanked open.

  “Out! Mamon!”

  James looked up. He saw a man with a shaved head, pockmarked face and black gristly goatee. Before he knew what was happening, the man grabbed his arm. James was pulled from his car. He didn’t try to resist. His foot caught as he stumbled out.

  The man, whose face was contorted into a masque of diabolical rage, yelled at him again. Whatever he said was unintelligible. James stepped back. The man jumped in his car. Not even bothering to close the door, the man stomped his foot on the gas. James’s car shot through the red light. There was a flash and a crash as another car hit the back of James’s Nissan and ricocheted off.

  It was as if time warped and went from fast to slow. James watched, unable to move, as the car that hit his flew by. It slammed into a concrete barrier with a resounding boom! The car’s airbags deployed instantly.

  In his peripheral vision, James saw his old beater of a Nissan do a three-sixty. It spun like a top and came to a stop. A moment later, his car was moving again. Its back wheels kicked up gravel as it headed down the road. It went a ways and then started to slow.

  Stunned and shaken, James looked at the occupant in the car that had hit the concrete barrier. The front of the car was caved in like an accordion. Black smoke was spilling out.

  James walked closer. There was a woman inside. The airbag had deflated some and the woman’s head was flopped forward, her long hair splayed on the bag. Her neck was limp. She appeared to be unconscious.

  The smell of gas assaulted his nostrils. Gas was spilling from the car. The windshield was shattered into a million spidery cracks.

  James looked fearfully at the gas. It was a larger puddle now with rivulets that went off in several directions. He looked around, but no one was stepping forward to help her. He stood there, indecisive. The front of the car—or what was left of it—was on fire. Sparks were popping from live wires.

  James rapped the side window, but she didn’t budge. He tried the door. It was badly bent in. He pulled as hard as he could, but it was either locked or stuck. It wasn’t budging. There was no back door as the car was a coupe. The side windows were still intact.

  “Miss!” He rapped the window again, hard.

  He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. Her face was bleeding.

  James yanked on the door handle again, but with no luck. He looked around and saw a mass of people and cars. No one was stepping forward to help.

  Shit.

  He went through the gas and around the car to get to the other door. He had to get the woman out.

  The front of the car was in flames. James heard a shout, but ignored it. He slipped and caught himself on the car. He continued forward; his eyes laser-focused on the door handle.

  He got to the handle and pulled. The handle clicked and the door cracked open. He had to yank it. The sound of metal shrieked. It opened partially. He looked at the flames. He looked at the woman slouched over her seat belt. Oh my God. He realized he was going to have to go in the car and undo her seat belt and pull her out.

  The flames were licking the windshield and putting off tremendous heat. The dash was pushed in from the crash. James yelled at her, but she didn’t move. She was definitely unconscious.

  Fuck.

  He went inside the car and felt a sharp pain, which he ignored. He had to climb over the passenger seat to get to her seat belt. He pushed the red button, but the seat belt stayed fast. He pushed it again and yanked. It came free. He could see flames all over the crumpled hood.

  They seemed alive. They were hot. It was like an oven. The flames were blackening the cracked windshield and popping noises were going off.

  He yelled at the girl and her eyes opened. He grabbed her, pushed aside the deflated airbag and her seatbelt. He got hold of an arm and her clothes. He pulled. There was no way to be gentle. In the back of his mind he knew if she was hurt, he might be harming her—possibly even paralyzing her—by moving her. But if he didn’t get her out, she was going to die. In fact, if they both didn’t get out, they were going to die.

  He pulled as hard as he could. She was dead weight. She bumped and slid over the seats. It felt like he was on fire. He coughed from the smoke; his eyes stung, but he didn’t dare stop. He got a better grip and put one arm around her waist. He pulled her from the car.

  His feet found purchase on the asphalt. He stepped backward, half dragging her, half carrying her. He almost slipped on gravel, but caught himself. His feet kept moving. In front of him, flames had engulfed the seats. He hacked and coughed, but didn’t let go of the girl.

  He was thirty feet away when the flames licked the gas on the ground. It was instantaneous. James and the woman he was carrying were thrown backward. As he fell, a conc
ussion flash of heat and flames went over them. James heard the roar. Felt the heat singeing his face. It was above him like a tidal wave of fiery air.

  Then his head hit something and all went black.

  13

  THE bickering wasn’t dying down. Sue didn’t want her girls to hear this. She took hold of their little hands.

  “Police aren’t going to help us.”

  The voice wasn’t raised. It wasn’t trying to drown the others out who were talking over each other, struggling to be heard. The fifty or so people in attendance seemed to simmer for a moment. Ellen Marigold, President of the neighborhood association, a prim and proper woman in her early sixties, raised her hands in the air.

  “Quiet, please. Who said that?”

  The people standing next to the man took a step back. Darren wasn’t a man that spoke much. He wasn’t one for these types of meetings either. In his twenty-three years living in the neighborhood this was only the third meeting he’d attended. He was reclusive; long retired. He preferred things quiet.

  “We’re on our own with this.” The crow’s feet near his eyes were deep. His back was hunched.

  “What do you mean the police won’t help us?” said someone from the back.

  “How can they not help us?” someone else said. “We pay our taxes. We deserve protection.”

  “What about the National Guard?”

  “Hold on! Please, hold on,” Ellen said. “We need to speak one at a time.” She glanced at Darren’s name tag. “Darren, do you have something to share?”

  Darren’s face set. He didn’t like the attention, but he was man enough to know he’d brought it on by speaking up. “TV’s not telling us. It’s the Nigerians. Another station says it’s the Chinese. They don’t know. We’re not going to find out for a while. That’s how it works.

  “As for the police—they got families themselves. The few that are out there have too much on their hands. They’re not going to help. You know that. All we can do is sit tight. Lock our doors and ride it out.”

  Darren was done. He’d said his piece. The others were quiet for a moment. Then others chimed in. It soon got back to bickering.