Firestorm

by David Klass

  “You coulda got killed jumping off a train. Why’d you do a damn-fool thing like that?”

  “‘Cause we coulda got killed staying on it, too.”

  “Somebody’s after you?”

  My voice shakes as I say, “I gotta stop this bleeding.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Somebody’s after me. I need dry clothes.”

  “I’m not running a charity.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  His eyes gleam. “You got money?”

  Watch it, old bean.

  “Enough to buy clothes,” I tell him. “And also a motorcycle.”

  Hayes looks amused. “Say what?”

  “Nothing fancy,” I continue. “A used bike with a couple of dings would be just fine. Long as it runs.”

  Aren’t you forgetting that dogs can’t ride motorcycles? Our paws are not suited for grasping handlebars. I suggest you purchase another type of vehicle. A luxury sedan would be my first choice, but I’m willing to consider an SUV …

  The beefy men in leather are looking at me like I’m crazy. “A straight cash deal,” I tell Hayes. “No bills of sale or DMV documents or any of that. Name your price.”

  Hayes considers for a second. “What’s to stop me from just taking your money?”

  Blood running down my cheek like war paint. My arms out from my sides, fingers clenched into fists. Looking back into those flinty eyes. “What’s to stop you?” I ask him back.

  I get the feeling Hayes doesn’t smile very often, but he does now. “Punk ass reminds me of me,” he tells his buddies. “Get him some dry clothes before his big balls freeze. Screech, you had a bike you were looking to move?”

  “Yeah,” a guy agrees in a high-pitched voice, “but hell, that old thing—”

  “Will do fine,” Hayes finishes. “What about the mutt?”

  How considerate of you to remember me. Mutt, by the way, is not an appellation I answer to. Mr. Mutt, perhaps. Let me again bring up the luxury sedan option …

  “I got an idea,” says a fellow who seems to prefer denim to leather. Looks more like a farm boy than a motorcycle gang member. “I saw something in my Auntie Rachel’s barn that would work. One of them old sidecars from like a hundred years ago.”

  Hayes thinks it over for a second and then offers me his deal. “Four hundred bucks to Screech for the bike. A hundred to Auntie Rachel for the sidecar. Another C-note to me for dry clothes and the pleasure of our company. You got six hundred dollars, punk ass?”

  Six hundred? That’s highway robbery. Counter low. May I suggest that in negotiating, it’s always best to give the impression that you are willing to walk away—

  “Deal,” I say, and offer my hand. It flaps out there in the cold wind like a lonely flag.

  Hayes ignores it. “Show me the cash,” he says.

  14

  “It works just great most of the time,” Screech assures me.”If it starts to stall, kick it here.” He demonstrates. The engine sputters and catches.

  Great bike. You really know how to pick ’em.

  Don’t give me any lip. You look preposterous.

  That’s putting it lightly. After an hour of searching in Auntie Rachel’s barn, the gang members found an old sidecar. Looks like it belongs in a Laurel and Hardy movie, a prop from a century-old stunt. Next they improvised a way to fasten it to Screech’s Harley, which is rusted and has more dings and dents than a carp has scales.

  After putting a crude bandage on my ear, they dressed me up in patchy denim and scruffy leather. Jeans two sizes too big. I double-cuffed the pants legs, but the waist and seat balloon out. Leather jacket with one long sleeve and the other ripped off at the shoulder. And one last mocking touch—some joker tied a red bandanna on Gisco’s head.

  So here we are, saying our goodbyes to the motorcycle gang, who have come to see us as comic relief. “Smooth sailing, punk ass.” “Don’t let those pants blow off.” “Next we got to get that dog some tattoos.” “Check it out—Dorothy in leather and Toto in a do-rag!”

  I smile and wave and am about to hit the gas and get us the hell out of there when Hayes saunters over. Uh-oh. What does he want? “You look like a fool,” he says.

  “Thanks to you and your buddies,” I reply.

  “You complaining?” Now he’s holding my handlebars.

  “No. I’m dry and this bike runs,” I tell him with a shrug. “That’s all I need. Thanks. See ya.”

  He doesn’t let go. Awkward moment. Tough guy wants to say something, but he’s not good at expressing himself. I hold out my hand for a shake to get him to release my bike.

  This time he takes my hand. Grip like an angry anaconda’s. I can’t disengage.

  He leans forward. “It’s not my style to hand out advice, but whatever’s chasing you, it’s better to face it than to run. Go home.”

  I look back at him. “You ran.”

  Impassive features. Tough guy. So why does he suddenly seem sad and vulnerable? “Look where it got me,” and he spits on the ground as if dismissing his whole life with one gob of saliva. “Keep running and pretty soon you’re not gonna be able to go back. So do what I didn’t. Go back home to what you know and to those who love you.”

  “Not an option.” I would say more, but I’m remembering what I knew and those who loved me. My throat constricts.

  He watches me and he gets it. We do have something in common after all. “Okay, then. Happy trails.”

  ZAA-ZAA-ZOOM! Sounds like cannon fusillade. Old motorcycle roars forward and nearly jumps off embankment. Sidecar hangs over edge of cliff.

  Gang members shout advice. “Pull her back.” “Don’t forget to steer.” “You’re gonna lose the dog!”

  Gisco agrees. I thought you said you knew how to ride this thing! I don’t mean to be a backseat driver, but THERE IS NO ROAD BENEATH ME! DO SOMETHING NOW! JACK!!!

  Wrestling match with old motorcycle. Like busting a rusty bronco. Right on edge of cliff. Wheels spitting sand. Fifty-foot plummet to rocks. Weight of sidecar dragging us over. Gisco covering his eyes with his paws.

  Give handlebars one last yank. Wheels pop out of sand. Back onto tarmac. ZAA-ZAA-ZOOOOM!

  Heading south on two-lane highway. Cold wind slapping me, but old leather jacket is like suit of armor. Throaty roar of motorcycle. Vibrations shaking my bones.

  Not bad. Fun, actually. I accelerate.

  Still feeling adrenaline rush from leap off train. Not to mention brawl with Cassidy. Violent night. As I speed into utter blackness, I wonder who will be gunning for me next. Bring them on!

  Snippet of poetry flashes to mind. Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.” Second stanza:

  “Forward, the Light Brigade!”

  Was there a man dismay’d?

  Not tho’ the soldier knew

  Some one had blunder’d:

  Theirs not to make reply,

  Theirs not to reason why,

  Theirs but to do and die:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  Yes, that’s the proper way to face it. Like Lord Cardigan leading the British cavalry into certain death at Balaclava. Stiff upper lip! Just keep galloping forward! Danger on all sides of me since Dad told me to get in the car in Hadley-by-Hudson. Barely more than twenty-four hours ago. It seems a lifetime.

  On, gloriously, forward! If death awaits, then give a good account! This whole thing is too murky to reason out. Mine not to reason why! Mine but to do and die!

  Are you okay?

  Never better, flea face. Starting to enjoy this.

  I mean, are you sure a punch to the noggin during that fight didn’t scramble your brains?

  My brains are sunny-side up and functioning perfectly, thank you very much. Why do you ask?

  ’Cause I’m picking up this weird vibe. Seems like an old British war movie or something. You sure you’re okay?

  Absolutely. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Wait a minute. You were reading my
mind? My inner thoughts?

  No, just a mood I was picking up on. Forget it.

  No, don’t forget it. It’s a hell of a lot more than just sensing my mood. You even nailed the British part. I wasn’t trying to communicate with you. You weren’t any part of it. But you knew exactly what I was thinking.

  Jack, let it go.

  So you can peer into my head? Just the way I read Jinny’s mind, and found out that she was betraying us?

  You did a great job there.

  Don’t change the subject. And I read the minds of the motorcycle gang members. I knew they didn’t like that guy Cassidy, and I should take him on one-on-one.

  Which you did. Bravo! Now, why don’t we—

  So you can read me just like I read them? Better, actually. You can even read specific details—

  I’m a great believer in personal privacy. But the simple fact, dear boy, is that you don’t shield your thoughts. You hang them out like underwear on a clothesline.

  How can I shield them?

  Instead of directing them outward or floating them like boats, turn them inward. You learned to send them easily enough. You should be able to shield them.

  I search for shield mechanism. Now that I’m looking, I sort of know what Gisco means. And where to find it.

  There. That’s it.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me before?

  Well, no one’s been reading your mind before. You were reared in a blissfully nontelepathic generation. Your boyhood compatriots were not tuning in to your wavelength.

  But my parents could do it. Right? They were like you, so they knew how to do it, just as well as you do. Correct?

  ’Fraid so, old sport. But they loved you and wanted what was best for you. I suppose knowing what you were thinking was a good way of protecting you.

  So that’s how they did it. Always wondered. The few times I tried to break their rules.

  Once I hid two marijuana joints in an old boot in the back of my closet. Mom just happened to find them. “Jack, you’ve disappointed us.” Grounded for a month.

  Another time, bunch of guys from the football team were going out for a midnight joyride. I snuck downstairs to join them at the agreed-on meeting place.

  Dad just happened to be awake, getting a glass of milk. “Where are you going at this hour, son?”

  “Oh, just … getting a drink of milk, like you, Dad. Humid night, huh? Made me thirsty.”

  “You said it. Let me pour you a glass. Have a seat on the couch. Let’s see what’s on The Late Late Show.”

  “How do you always catch me?” I once asked Mom.

  “You have a transparent face,” she said with a laugh. “Comes with being such a sweet boy. Part of the territory.”

  Transparent face, my ass, Mom. You were reading my thoughts. Kind of invasive, huh? Like reading my mail.

  Oh my God, all my fantasies about P.J. on those hot summer nights.

  And other fantasies, about the cheerleading team. The kinds of silly, outrageous things that creep into guys’ heads every so often. Mom and Dad read all of that.

  I pull over near a crossroads. Lord Cardigan never had to deal with anything like this. Suddenly I don’t feel so good. Not sick. Just betrayed. Sad. Angry. Violated. Powerless. Completely powerless and manipulated.

  You okay?

  Read my mind and you tell me.

  Don’t be that way.

  Screw you. I glance up at sign. Turn off highway onto larger highway. Heading for Washington, D.C.

  What are you doing? We were on the right road.

  This one heads south, too.

  But it’s not as direct. We’re losing time.

  So what? It’s not like anybody’s expecting us at Kitty Hawk. I’ve never seen Washington, D.C., and I feel like checking it out. Want to see the White House. And the Capitol. You got a problem with that?

  I forbid it. This is a mistake.

  Maybe, but it’s my mistake. Mine. Me. Remember me? Jack Danielson. I’m tired of following other people’s rules and doing what other people say I should do and letting them take advantage of me and manipulate me. I’m taking control here. If you want to come along for the ride, shut up about “forbidding it” and try to enjoy being a tourist.

  Otherwise, you’re welcome to get out right here.

  15

  Washington, D.C., at three in the morning. Sleeping city. Empty city. And pitifully clueless city. Supposed to be supremely aware, completely plugged in, hyperinformation hub. FBI. CIA. Pentagon. Buzzing with state-of-the-art intelligence. Bastion of security. Protect citizens against all threats, foreign and domestic.

  Truth is no one here has a clue. I’m parked on Pennsylvania Avenue. Looking at the White House. Pretty in the moonlight. Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, F.D.R., J.F.K.—all slept here.

  Current President snoring away inside. What’s he dreaming about, I wonder? The next gala dinner for the Prime Minister of Hoozie Whatsie? Or the coming midterm elections, and will he have to make another stump speech in Dubuque?

  I feel a powerful urge to rap on the door and wake him up. Hey, Mr. President. It’s me, Jack Danielson, from Hadley-by-Hudson. Open your eyes, sir. Get your butt vertical. They’re here. All around us. Gorms. Bat creatures. Guards in Penn Station with laser guns. They’re battling each other all over your fifty states! Do something!

  What should you do, sir? Heck, I don’t know. You’re the President. I’m just doing my duty as an American citizen. Bringing you key info. Now do your job and protect me. Because the police in Hadley didn’t protect me and the New York cops couldn’t do it either, but you’re the President, and if anyone can do it, sir, you can.

  But of course I don’t go rap on the door. Because I know that he can’t help me. He doesn’t have a clue. That’s why he’s snoozing. Yes, there’s a battle going on within his borders, but it’s a shadow battle, fought by people and creatures far more advanced than he is. One sign of their superiority is that they know about his world but he doesn’t have the slightest inkling that they even exist.

  So I stand there, barely able to resist the temptation to run forward and give the door a swift kick. Wake up, Mr. President. HEEELLLPPP MEEEE!

  No point in even trying. It would be futile. I’d be dismissed as a kook. Sure, Gorms and bat creatures. The Secret Service would like to take you to a nice, clean cell, Mr. Danielson. Come along. Spiffy leather jacket, by the way, but what happened to your right sleeve?

  The night breeze blows. I stand there next to the motorcycle. Gisco sits in his sidecar, also looking at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. As I watch, he shakes his head.

  You okay, kid?

  You’re the one who looks sad.

  Who’s reading whose mind now? Just thinking about missed opportunities, old bean.

  Who missed what opportunities?

  Forget it. Can we go now?

  We drive off down the avenue. Dark and mostly empty streets. Swing around to the parks that hold our cherished national icons. The reflecting pool shimmers with a million stars. Pass the different memorials. Lincoln looking sad but wise. The Washington Monument poking up in a none-too-subtle display of national potency. We ride uphill along the east side of the Mall till the great dome of the Capitol Building fills the night sky.

  Park on a corner of the south terrace. Behind me, the Capitol stands in columned splendor. I get off motorcycle and walk. Gisco trots along next to me.

  Stop at edge of terrace. A zillion marble steps lead steeply down to the Mall far below. I stand there, looking at the sleeping city. Two thousand years ago they said all roads led to Rome. Now all roads lead here.

  This is the Rome of my world, the nexus of power, our national and global security blanket. Whatever goes wrong, this is where they can fix it. Whoever attacks, this is where they can repel them.

  In the distance are a spattering of lights from homes, office buildings, and government facilities. In some strange way I feel connected to everyone and everything out there, to the White Hou
se I just visited, and to the Capitol Building right behind me, to the Pentagon and the FBI headquarters, and to the thousands of people who help run the vast machine of this nation, who are now slumbering away in Georgetown and Arlington and Bethesda.

  I am part of them. I was brought up to believe in them. Yet they can’t help me. Somehow I’m stuck in this mess all by my lonesome.

  Gisco is also looking down and shaking his head. I ask him: What are you so upset about?

  Sleeping. The fools! They could have fixed it. They had the opportunity and the power. Instead they did nothing. Shortsighted idiots!

  What are you talking about? Who could have fixed what?

  Gisco doesn’t answer. Sad dog face. Still wearing the red bandanna. Something about what he just said, and his use of the past tense. I almost figure it out—

  And then I hear a little snap, crackle, pop, and what looks like a string of red firecrackers goes off with cherry flashes.

  Jack! Watch out. Paralysis darts!

  16

  Too late. Shooting pain in right hip. Then numbness.

  Go, dog. Save yourself. I can’t run.

  Climb on my back.

  What good is that going to do? Take your chance and flee. It’s me they want.

  Get on and shut up!

  Shadows running at us. Hurling something. Blue spiderwebs flash.

  Plasma nets. If they hit us, we’re sunk. Get on now!

  I get on. Cling to his furry back.

  Big dog bounds through the darkness. Surprising agility. Red paralysis darts and blue plasma nets flash around us like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  Dog makes it to motorcycle. Can you drive?

  I swing awkwardly off his back onto Harley. Gisco leaps into sidecar.

  VRROOOOM. For once the old motorcycle starts right up.

  I try to roar off terrace in easterly direction, but it’s not going to work. More shadows coming from that direction! From the west, too! Taking fire from three sides. Like the Brits at Balaclava!

  I drive in wild circle on marble terrace, searching for way out. Semicircle of shadows closing in fast.