by Thunboe, Bo
“Sure, sure.” Wayne stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away.
Dan put on the helmet and mounted the bike and cruised slowly out of the garage. When he was outside the cold wind whipped against him, but his shame kept him warm. Maybe that was it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to break any more laws, lie to any more people, or steal from anyone else on the way home.
Somehow, he doubted it.
17
Sean filled his backpack with energy bars and canned nuts and filled two plastic shopping bags with batteries and lighters. The bags were flimsy so he triple-bagged everything to make sure they wouldn’t rip open.
He shouldered the pack and snapped the chest and waist belts closed. He bounced to raise the weight higher on his shoulders, then cinched both belts tighter. Good. He squatted with his torso vertical so the pack’s weight wouldn’t topple him and grabbed the loop handles of a bag with each hand. When he stood back up, his shoulders strained and the plastic handles cut into his hands. He should have worn gloves.
He gripped the doorknob in his fingertips, twisted it, and pulled. The knob started to slip out of his grip but he managed to open the door far enough to stuff his boot in the gap, then shoved the door open with his foot. He stepped out into the cold and the door closed behind him on its hydraulic device. He headed back the way he’d come, circling behind the row of bushes and then down and across the retention pond. When he crested the opposite berm, he had a clear view of the front of the gas station. The Honda was still parked at the pumps but its doors were closed and the windows fogged. Sean wondered what the men in the car were waiting for; nothing was coming for them except the dawn. But at least with them holed up in their car, Dino would have no trouble sneaking out the back door.
Sean descended the berm, careful with his footing on the icy ground, then headed east on North Kirwin Road. The winds blew stronger here, whipping down the bare asphalt and pushing against the wide profile he made with the pack and the bags. He cut diagonally across the wide intersection at Ogden and Raymond and had started north when he saw a flashlight beam cutting back and forth along the front of the long string of shops across the road. He stopped and watched as it came his way. He crouched, but the beam stopped advancing and slashed to a store window. Enough light bounced back for Sean to see two people. One of them swung something and the window shattered loudly.
Sean decided to avoid them. He went east on Ogden, planning to cut north at River Road.
The thin loops of the plastic bags were slicing into his hands with every step. He smoothed out his walk, gliding along. At the corner with River Road he squatted and set the bags down. He rubbed his hands together and the heat and friction warmed them and eased the pain. He snagged the handles and stood back up.
“What you got there?”
Sean spun toward the voice. The unwieldy bags and massive weight of the pack unbalanced him and he stumbled, but recovered quickly. Three men. Latino twenty-somethings in thin leather coats. Shit! One was tall and lanky with bony wrists that stuck out of too-short sleeves. The other two were shorter and near twins, one in boots and the other in white Jordans. None of the three wore hats or gloves. As they spread out in front of him, Sean thought, I’m screwed!
“I asked you a question, White Bread.”
“Just supplies.” Sean changed course and headed east down Ogden. Whatever happened, he would not lead these guys to his house.
“You got any hats in there?” Lanky darted in front of Sean and the other two laughed.
“Just some food and stuff. Going camping with the Boy Scouts.” Sean kept moving, Lanky walking backwards in front of him.
“What’s your hurry, Boy Scout?” Lanky blew on his hands. “Wish you was wearing some gloves I could borrow from ya.”
Lanky snatched off Sean’s hat and put it on his own head. Sean’s ears got cold and the wind cut through his short hair. They passed the McDonalds and the street began to descend the long hill to cross the Paget River. Gravity and wind worked together against him and Sean picked up more speed than he wanted. Boots jumped in front of him, exhaling a cloud of beer fumes, and put his hands on Sean’s chest. Sean drove with his legs and his mass kept him moving and he pushed through Boots.
“What the hell, man?” Boots fell to the ground but scrambled back to his feet.
“You going to let White Bread knock you down like that?” Jordans egged his friend on.
Sean was moving even faster now, too fast, and he broke into a jog to keep his feet under him. He had been a Boy Scout, so knew how to run smooth and fluid with the pack, limiting the up and down motion that jarred the back and wore out the feet and shoulders. But he’d never run with heavy plastic bags in his hands. He rolled his wrists to move the straps higher in his palms.
“Slow the fuck down.” Lanky cut in front of Sean and stuck out a leg. There’s no way I can jump high enough weighted down like this! Sean swung the bags at Lanky and released them, then leapt over the extended leg. The bags struck Lanky and broke apart, batteries and lighters scattering around the man as he fell down.
The pack lifted from Sean’s shoulders as he dropped from the top of his arc. The weight pulled against the chest and waist straps but the buckles held. Lanky reached out and snagged Sean’s boot and yanked. Sean clenched his core muscles to fight the torque of Lanky’s pull but his left foot folded under him as he landed and he went down on his knee, skidding on the concrete, jeans tearing and skin searing off his knee. He dragged his right foot forward and jabbed it into the pavement and then he was up and jogging again, feeling light and almost nimble without the plastic bags weighing him down. I got this!
But Lanky was after him almost as fast. Sean pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and flung them over his shoulder, the bills snapping and fluttering in the wind.
“What the hell—forget him. Get the money.” Boots whooped. “Those are twenties, man.”
“They’re mine,” said Jordans.
Sean hoped throwing the money would keep the men too busy to chase him, but feet slapped the pavement behind him. No doubt Lanky. The man had long legs and wasn’t carrying fifty pounds of food on his back. At the bottom of the hill Sean stretched his stride and for an instant thought he was pulling away but then the pack jerked back against his chest strap, his feet went out from under him, and he went down hard, his butt bouncing once on the concrete, then scraping until he came stopped.
Lanky leaned over him, breathing hard and his face red. “Hold the fuck still, Boy Scout.”
Sean rolled to his left to get his weight off his burning butt cheek.
“I said hold still, asshole.”
Sean glanced back up Ogden where Boots and Jordans scrambled for the loose bills. He needed to do something fast before those two joined Lanky, but he was like a wounded turtle. He rolled further and got both hands under him, keeping his waist low to keep from spilling the pack over his head. “I’m just going to stand up,” he said. He pushed up and got his right foot under him and lunged up and planted the left.
“Not another inch, White Bread.”
“Holding still,” Sean said. He stood up slowly, shifting his weight around to test his left foot—it was fine, his ankle just a little sore. He faced Lanky, his mind spinning through the little he knew about fighting, when red and blue lights pulsed into view over the man’s shoulder, coming down the crushed gravel Paget River Trail.
“Look behind you.”
Lanky smirked as if he was too smart for that trick but then took a step away from Sean and turned to look for himself.
The lights throbbed against the undergrowth on both sides of the trail.
“Shit!” Lanky took off like an Olympic sprinter, surging up the hill and shouting for his buddies. “Cops. Leave it! Let’s go.”
Jordans sprang up and followed while Boots kept chasing after the twenties. Then the outer edge of the pulsing colors reached Ogden, and Boots raced after his friends.
Sean watched them until th
ey crested the top of the hill, then faced what was coming. The lights got brighter, then burst into brilliance as their source left the shelter of the trees and scrub bush along the trail. It was Carson on a bicycle, the lights mounted on his handlebar. Carson cruised to a stop, the lights fading out as he slowed. He still wore the hardhat and vest. “What’s going on here, Fallon?”
None of your damn business. “What’s with the police lights?”
Carson pointed to the logo on his vest. “I told your mom. I’m a member of CERT. In emergencies we’re in charge. We are the law.”
As a high school senior, Sean participated in the Weston Citizens Academy to get an inside look at different municipal careers so was familiar with CERT. It was part of emergency management, not law enforcement, but arguing with Carson was a waste of time and Sean had things to do.
“See you later.” Sean stepped around Carson to take the trail home.
“Hold on a minute, Fallon.” Carson walked his bike backwards and angled it into Sean’s path. “What do you have in the pack?” Carson climbed off his bike and kicked the stand down.
Sean edged away. The old guy might still be pissed about Sean’s mom slapping his arm. “I bought some supplies for the power outage.”
“Like what?” Carson circled behind Sean.
“The usual,” Sean backpedaled and spun as Carson lunged for the pack, but the weight made him too slow and Carson yanked Sean to a stop. Carson forced a hand under the flap and pulled out a fistful of protein bars.
“Food! I hereby confiscate everything in that pack for the neighborhood. Take it directly back to the court and leave it on my front stoop.”
“Go buy your own supplies.”
“They’re not for me, Fallon. They’re for everyone on the court.” Carson patted the logo on his vest. “What I say goes. That’s the law. Together, we’ll survive this thing.”
Survive. Using that word meant Carson understood what had happened and how bad it was. But that didn’t mean he was capable of leading them through it. “You need to give me back what you stole out of my backpack.”
“They aren’t yours anymore. I confiscated them for the good of us all.”
Sean squeezed his hands into fists and considered punching the asshole. But if Carson really did have the power to confiscate food, punching him would be a crime. He bit his lip. “If you don’t give them to me now, Dan will come to your house to get them.”
“Isn’t he off on one of his big-shot lawyer things?”
“He’s on his way home.”
Carson smirked. “I don’t need to worry about him, then.” Carson stuffed the bars into his coat pocket, then climbed back on his bike and headed off down the trail. He yelled back to Sean as his bike dropped down the incline toward the river. “I’m the law on our court, Fallon. Leave that pack on my stoop, or else.”
Sean watched Carson ride away. Dan needed to make it home. He would know about this law Carson claimed gave him power.
And how to avoid it.
And Carson.
18
Dan rode the motorcycle slowly to get a feel for how it handled. It was perfect for him because he’d ridden dirt bikes as a kid and the CB was built like a dirt bike with wide handlebars, a large seat, and the foot controls and pegs under him instead of way out front like a cruiser or behind him like a crotch rocket. He twisted the throttle in a clear stretch of pavement and after a brief delay the engine thumped faster and the bike sped up. It wasn’t quick, but it could get him home.
If he didn’t freeze to death.
The headlight beam bobbed and jittered, illuminating no more than a hundred feet in front of him. Luckily the moon was nearly full and the wispy snow cover reflected enough light that he saw clearly. As he cruised down the long sweeping curve of the on ramp, Elsa’s car came into view, nosed down into the median and smashed into his Lincoln. He parked the bike on the road and climbed off. He left it running and took off the helmet and put it on the seat. The wind had died off and the cold was bearable when it’s bite wasn’t amplified by his road speed. The thick, sweet odor of antifreeze still clung to the area and made him hungry. He’d left his car unlocked and climbed back through it, popped the trunk, and searched through his suitcase for another layer of clothes. He added flannel pajama bottoms under the jeans and an extra T-shirt over the one he already wore. He pulled another T-shirt over his head and left it bunched up around his neck like a scarf and turned up the collar of his overcoat. He got the rest of his gear back on and stood at the open trunk, eying the two boxes stuffed with files.
He pulled his gloves off and took the lid off the first box. The tight pack of manila folders were adorned with post-it notes of six different colors. Each note bore an index number. Dan had memorized the entire index and where each item was filed. Being fluent with the documents was one of his tricks. It allowed him to pull out the exact right document at the exact right moment to catch the witness in a lie or force him to tell the truth. Preparation had been the key to his success as a lawyer. That’s what I’m good at, he thought. I’m a courtroom warrior. With all that over—maybe forever—what am I now? A husband and father? As much as he loved the kids—and he did love them—he’d never felt comfortable as their dad. A psychologist would surely blame that on Dan not having a dad of his own. Or maybe even more directly on the one time he’d actually met his dad.
He put the lid back on the box and closed the trunk. No one would ever look at those files again.
His searched his briefcase and found an energy bar smashed in a corner of the front pocket. He ate it, then climbed back up the slope to the road. He put the helmet on, mounted the bike, kicked up the stand, and took a moment to look at the Lincoln. It was a beautiful vehicle with smooth power and a tight ride and had been fun to drive back and forth to Des Moines while working this big case.
All of that was over. Driving the car. Working the cases. Being a lawyer.
He asked himself again, What am I now?
He pulled in the clutch, tapped the bike into gear, and headed east. He rode in the center of the lane, between the ruts the long-haul truckers had worn into the pavement. When he had it cruising in fifth, he hunched down against the gas tank to reduce his wind profile.
The road scrolled past beneath him, the CB’s suspension handling the mild bumps and cracks with little trouble. The sky cleared and moon shone, revealing a stark winter-scape of harvested corn fields in every direction. The cold was manageable as long as he kept it under forty. Faster than that and the wind cut through his clothes.
On a long swooping curve he came upon the remains of a semi flipped over in the median, the trailer crumpled and pallets of toilet paper spilled onto the grass. This vehicle had a much higher center of gravity than the Lincoln so when it lost its power steering and went off the road the consequences had been much greater.
Dan sat up and tapped the shifter down through the gears as he worked the clutch.
Stopping was the Christian thing to do, right? Being the Good Samaritan was the subject of at least a few homilies every year. He rolled to a stop and flipped up the helmet’s face shield. The cab was nothing but smoking metal and melted fiberglass. He smelled burnt rubber and hot metal.
And cooked meat.
Dan’s stomach churned.
Hopefully the driver died before the fire got to him.
Dan flipped the shield down and ran the bike back up through the gears, the truck and its odors falling behind him.
The road curved to the south then back to head straight east, a ramp exiting to a truck stop in the near distance.
As he approached a pair of cars on the righthand shoulder, the driver’s door of the lead car flung open and a man jumped out waving his arm and yelling something Dan couldn’t hear through the helmet and the wind. He sat up and slowed. The man walked into Dan’s lane and held both arms up. Dan downshifted again, the little bike shedding speed. He wondered why these people hadn’t walked to the truck stop. There would b
e more help there than he could offer. Dan saw the man more clearly now in his headlight’s beam. He was big with a thick beard and wore flannel and denim. Dan popped the bike into first gear and let out the clutch and the bike slowed further, the engine and transmission whining.
Family first… Mary’s words wormed into his head. She was right. There was other help available for these people and anything Dan could do for them would take time. He twisted the throttle and the bike surged forward.
“Hey,” the man yelled, arms waving. “Hang on, man.”
Dan shifted into second and gave it more gas. The man reached out as Dan passed and snagged the end of the handlebar. The Honda veered sharply. Dan threw his weight to counteract the motion but the front wheel dipped into the truck rut, then wanted to stay in the groove. I’m going down! The motorcycle quivered over the wheel but he wrenched the handlebars straight and stayed upright. He ran up through the gears and he was away.
His body trembled with adrenaline and his breathing was so fast it fogged the face shield and crystalized into ice on the clear plastic.
The blackout was only hours old and people were already going crazy. How bad would it get before he made it home?
Maybe daylight would calm people down.
Or maybe it would make things worse.
19
Mary sat on the toilet seat in the master bathroom. Enough moonlight came through the wide window facing the river that she could almost read the label on the plastic bottle in her hand. A gentle shake and the loose rattle told her she was getting low. She opened it and dumped the contents into her hand.
Three pills.
Then what?
She needed the pills. Before the pills, delusions rose up and enveloped her in a waking nightmare that caused her to lose her children, her job, and every friend she had. With the pills everything got better: she landed a good job, met Dan, and got her children back. With the pills she had few delusions and when one hit she could recognize it for what it was and force herself back to reality.