The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  The bull, who had been standing the entire time, gave a snort, a signal that the love fest was at an end, that the mysterious human was all right. One-by-one the three bison click-clacked across highway 24, then softly padded onto the high prarie dirt.

  Robert turned to his left.

  “Jesus and all that is holy. Charley Lame Deer, are you late for work again?”

  Cal Anderson Park

  Seattle

  The morning mist had turned to a light rain, which had turned a bad day into a miserable one.

  “Well, one thing for sure,” Karen gave Denny a smirk, “you sure can snore. Might put you up for the Olympic snoring team. How’s your shoulder?”

  Not so good. “Do you have any asprin?” Denny answered, painfully test-flexing his shoulder.

  “Sure—back in my desk at the lab, second drawer down, right next to my Snickers bars and Lifesavers. Except as I remember, I left my desk in quite a mess. Sorry, Dr. Cain, I don’t have anything for you. We’ll have to pick something up. Or steal something. Are we coming or going?” Karen asked, not thrilled with the idea of leaving the relative comfort of the tent.

  Denny peeked out from their Big Agnes tent, then crawled to his knees, opened the tent fly and got out onto the wet grass. When it rained in Seattle it was as if the water was being passed through a fine colander, like one of those mist machines you see on TV at a football game in the South.

  It was a little after one but it looked like it was almost sundown. Fire engines could be heard in every direction. The office buildings behind and downhill from Cal Anderson Park were dark. Hope nobody is in an elevator. Then the memory of the snapped Space Needle and the destroyed campus of the University of Washington; and the students, faculty, neighbors trudging zombie-like toward Husky Stadium.

  A hundred other tents were scattered across the park, all popped up in the last two hours. Soft rain dripped off Denny’s semi-balding 52-year old head. “Karen, I was just going to work today, just like you were. This,” he gave a 180-degree scan of the western horizon, “is something,” from her perspective inside the tent, looking up at Denny, she could tell it wasn’t rain come from his eyes. “I don’t know, this is something terrible.” The word terrible came out of his mouth like he’d swallowed a smoke monster. “I don’t want to leave. I want to crawl back inside this tent and curl up and by the day after tomorrow everything will be all right. But,” Denny’s face screwed up, like he was trying to eat the words that bit at his lips. “This is not good. We need to get out of Seattle. We need to get out of Seattle, now. Terrible things are going to happen here,” he looked at her with visionary eyes. “Bad people are going to try to win the day. There’s nobody here to take care of us, but us. Come nightfall, Seattle’s going to burn.”

  “OK,” she smiled ruefully. “Everything will be all right, I’m with the Prophet Denny,” she laughed shortly, then scrambled out of the tent and began to quickly fold the wet material to something manageable. Ten minutes later everything was packed into backpacks or side packs for their bikes. “Where to, boss?”

  Starting with a series of groans as he acknowledged his middle-aged bones, Denny saddled his bike and began to peddle south on 11th Avenue through the old Capital Park neighborhood, quickly leaving Cal Anderson park and its legacy of peace, hope, and neighborhood pride behind. Karen wasn’t sure where his Mariner’s baseball cap came from, but the cap was obviously useful, and it didn’t look terribly out of place, even functional. The miserable mist refused to give up.

  In a few minutes the pair hit Madison Street, one of the major streets in Seattle. Criss-crossing Seattle from SW to NW, Madison St. divided neighborhoods, old Seattle wealth on Capital Hill from the less prosperous and very mixed neighborhoods of the Central District, older, poorer homes in a neighborhood surrounded on two sides by freeways (I-80 and I-5). At Seattle University, the pair jogged a street to the east at the Lynn Building, then continued south on 12th Avenue. Unlike a mishmosh like Atlanta, Seattle’s streets and avenues ran in true directions; avenues north-south, streets east-west. The grid ran throughout King County; thus you could live in Issaquah, twenty miles to the east and live on 184th Avenue.

  “Where are we going?” shouted Karen at one point, nearly breathless with the pace the older Denny was keeping.

  “The tunnel,” Denny returned, finally a bit breathless. The pair continued to bike smoothly neighborhood after neighborhood.

  The I-90 entrance to Seattle from the east. Interstate 5 was jammed, closed down. It was mid-day, there was no rescue in progress, and workers headed to downtown were in a fit. There were no telephones; cars were stopped; jammed. It was Lightless in Seattle; no traffic lights, no overhead lights, no tall building lights, no sun light. A dark funk had covered the city. By three o’clock it would be half-past funky. By three forty-five it would be virtually dark. By five-fifteen it would seem like midnight.

  People were out in the street but Karen and Denny paid them no mind; in fact, pumping harder as they approached congregations of people. After a bit Karen didn’t need to ask Denny the path; she understood; get out of Seattle. She wasn’t quite sure of the streets, but the general direction to the south and east, she was OK.

  She wanted to ask Denny if he wanted to stop at Swedish Medical, but knew the answer was no. Then they were in the blended neighborhood of Cherry Hill, Downtown and Central; places with less view, less property values, fewer grocery stores. East Madison cut straight through, in fact it was the dividing line for race and income. Two blocks later 11th Ave made a sharp turn eastward at the Chapel of Saint Ignatius, the ultra modern Jesuit worship center at Seattle University. Karen imagined she was in the Tour de France, and leaned into the turn as did her mentor. Ahead of her, her erstwhile friend with the dislocated shoulder, was peddling like mad. A block later they turned right onto 12th and began to pass darkened buildings right and left. People were mingling on the streets, on doorsteps; most were black, some Asian.

  There were over 125 separate gangs in King County Washington; black, Asian, mixed, all female, hispanic and white.

  “Karen” Denny shouted, turning back to her. “Six or seven more blocks! Don’t stop for anything! OK?” Denny didn’t want to use the g-word as he was cruising at 30 miles an hour through the heart of gang-controlled neighborhods.

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel comfortable, right?” she shouted back at him. She could see him smile, but his eyes were worried.

  This was a well-known gang area; but apparently the gang members were too whazz-up’d to figure out what had happened. Black dudes hung out in row houses, drawers down to their pubes; black talk back and forth about the electricity and the earthquakes.

  Denny knew. Get past them as soon as possible; Seattle was going to shit bricks tonight.

  They zipped past a bevy of restaurants; The Lemongrass, Waids, Zobel, and the Blue Nile Ethiopian. Three more blocks and they crossed into the International District; North Shore Hawaiian BBQ, Cuisine Saba, King’s BBQ, Saigon Vietnam Deli, Seven Stars Szechuan, New World Seafood, Houng Binh, a smorgusborg of good eats; all down and out, no power, no credit card machines, maybe no line telephone service, for sure no cell phone service.

  At South Dearborn Denny slowed and came to a stop.

  “One block over is Rainier. We’re going take a right and pedal like crazy. Five blocks down Rainier we’re going to cut to the left and go around the south side of Judkins Park. I have no clue what’s going to happen, Karen. Or what to expect.”

  Karen saw a new level of concern in Denny’s eyes.

  “You’re not going to leave me down here, are you?” she asked, clearly out of breath.

  “Leave you?” he laughed. “You saved my life.” He paused. “I-5 is closed southbound.”

  “Lead on,” she tried a wan smile.

  Boyd, Montana

  The sign said Boyd.

  A faded cardboard sign next to the official Department of Transportation sign had “Population 8” wh
ich was crossed off four times, now reading a very faded 0, was all that was left.

  Perhaps not realizing it, Penny slowed as she drove north on US 212, as if out of respect for the past. Boyd was most likely some man’s first name, perhaps a rancher, or card shark, or just some Joe Blow who got tired and stopped in the road; regardless, there was a Dakota Street, a Main Street, a Cow Street and a Cooley Dam Road, which was the western extension of Cow Street—actual street signs, which on closer inspection were nearly sand blasted to invisibility by the relentless pararie wind. There was no traffic signal, no stop sign, no restaurant, no gas station; nothing but the remains of what poor, desperate people wanted to call home.

  Boyd, Montana, population zero.

  What filled 99.44% of Penny Armstrong’s brain was her rear view mirror. The Black Death Cloud of chinka chinka was now surrounded by a massive grey billowing White Death Cloud. The entire southern horizon was blocked. The sun would go down early in western Montana because the southern sky would block the sun; this was February and the sun goes down early in Montana in February.

  Five-eighths of a tank. Residents of Montana knew that you never let your tank drop below 3/8 because you just never knew what the fuck was going to happen. All of a sudden it’s June and you’re in three feet of thick snow; or its raining so God-damned hard that the roads are washed. But, that’s Montana.

  Penny passed through the village of Rockvale, which was ten miles south of Laurel, which was on I-90. The small town was ruined. A few dogs ran about this way and another, but no humans. Another trailer town done in by the earthquake.

  What’s that? In the near distance to her right, perhaps three city blocks, two children were playing in the dusty sagebrush next to a ruined single-wide trailer. In amongst the dark-haired moppets were three dogs, who appeared to have the children circled.

  Protecting them.

  She passed the turnoff to the ruined home. It wasn’t far to I-90. Everything was like Red Lodge, destroyed, except it was Big Sky Over Little Squashed Towns.

  Protecting them.

  Penny continued north on 212. In the distance was the I-90 valley, with the interstate highway snaking its way alongside the Yellowstone River; on the northern side of the river was a high bluff that ran for seventy mile and protected those who settled beneath the persistent Montana winds.

  Penny adjusted her rear view mirror, tilting it toward the east (right). The faint view was of children and dogs.

  It’s OK, they’ll be all right. I’m all right. They’ll be all right.

  No they won’t. They’ll be eaten by the dogs. They might be wolves. They’re children. They can’t make decisions to live or die like you can. It’s not like leaving Jimmy or those zombies in Red Lodge. They’re crying, for Christ’s sake! They’re children. DO SOMETHING! You can’t let them die. ou have to save them!

  A primal scream came from Penny’s mouth like the dark monster was upchucking from the depths of her soul. She began to cry uncontrollably.

  Leave the scene was her default response.

  “No, no, no, no, NO NO NO!” she shouted and pounded the truck’s steering wheel hard enough to break a bone, but not quite.

  The old Toyota came to a swivel stop on highway 212. There was no traffic in either direction. Penny swung the wheel and did a quick U-turn, then punched the accelerator.

  The sign said Edgar three miles. Penny turned left and accelerated. To her left she saw the destroyed trailer home with the children in the front yard. The closer she got the more afraid she became. The children were screaming in fear. The closer she got the clearer she understood. The dogs weren’t dogs but wolves, circling their prey. Instinctively the children knew they were in trouble.

  Penny drove directly at the wolves, hoking her horn as she did so. The sound distracted the three wolves, but not quite to the point of running away; in fact, they decided that Penny was the new enemy. Penny turned and went after the one with the white collar, driving straight at the animal, missing it by a fender. The wolves were clearly distracted, but not finished; in fact they stopped circling the children and pulled back a bit, waiting to see what the truck-monster would do.

  The children stopped crying, amazed at what was happening in front of them.

  The lead wolf, the one with the white collar, looked around, and seeing nothing to get in her way, slowly advanced toward the children. The Toyota could only dance so much. The enemy wasn’t to be feared as much as it first seemed. Penny took another shot at the wolves, hitting one of them hard on the right flank and sending it flying in pain; she spun the truck and came to a stop between the children and the wolves. Obviously not in her right senses but angry as hell, Penny got out of the truck and quickly went to the bed of the truck, pulled out one of her skis, and brandished it as a weapon.

  Eight feet long with a sharp-enough tip, the primary attack wolf was clearly in unfamiliar territory as Penny advanced toward the animal, then quickly circled the ski over her head in kung-fu fashion, with the tip of the ski striking the lead wolf on the head, leaving a sharp impression on the animal; who yelped in surprise, then backpeddaled quickly. The other wolves followed.

  Penny began to scream a stream of profanities at the wolves as she advanced, swinging the ski in whosh-whosh-whosh fashion, first at the lead wolf, then at the followers.

  In five minutes the battle was done. The wolves retreated quickly into the desert. Penny was spent, physically and emotionally. Beat to shit. She turned to the children, who in turn looked at her with Wonder-Woman eyes.

  “iise!” the children exclaimed, running to Penny. The children were probably no more than four, maybe three years old. “iise!” they cried. The children ran to her and surrounded her knees, uttering the language of the Crow Indian Tribe.

  Well, this was Montana.

  The wolves had retreated perhaps two hundred yards across the sage. The land wasn’t desert, but close. Add water and it was farmland.

  Penny got out of the truck and helped the children into the passenger side seat and closed the door. She walked toward the destroyed single-wide trailer, expecting the worst. She stopped. Her feet were getting the fifty-cent massage you get in the no-tell motel. Turning to her right, the massive Death Cloud had doubled in size, billowing high and wide into the air. Although Red Lodge was forty miles away and the mountain range sixty miles away, neither on the horizon, the cloud was prominent, hitting a road block someplace on this side of the mountains, then tailing off to the east and south. The horizon to the south was solid black, which meant its width was at least a hundred miles.

  The single-wide trailer looked like a giant hand had smashed it from the top, like squashing a beer can, except that the trailers “walls” had simply collapsed in four different directions, the roof and floor were one. Flotsam and jetsam crunching under her feet, Penny stood in what had been the kitchen. Water spurted from what had been a connection to a well. The smell of propane gas escaping was unmistakeable. In what was the back yard, the large propane tank hadn’t been damaged. Penny found the emergency on/off switch and turned it off. It wouldn’t take long for the gas to dissapate.

  Penny kicked aside an upside-down chair, then carefully pulled a section of the fallen front wall and moved it aside. Nothing. No mama, no papa. She did the same for what had been the rear of the trailer. Nothing. Food stamp receipts, delinquent bills, twenty or so cans and bottles of various beers, and a case of empty Jim Beam 1.75 bottles, the only bodies she discovered.

  These children were left here all alone. Penny’s face started to flush in anger. Somebody left these children here all alone! Not caring if there was a body in the rubble, Penny turned and walked to the truck.

  I’m so fucking pissed.

  Instead of turning north on 212 toward Laurel, I-90 and Billings, Penny looked at her gas tank, saw that it had 5/8ths remaining, and turned left onto US 310, following the sign for Edgar, MT. The childen looked at Penny like she was The Earth Mother from Mars.

  “H
ola,” Penny muttered looking at the children, then firmly put the truck into second gear and spun dirt toward the wolves, who stood still in what appeared to be star-struck admiration. She turned south, then immediately left onto Elwell Street—a junction in the middle of nowhere—ahead was a faded green sign; Edgar 4, Prior 22, St. Xavier 52, Crow Agency 74.

  Looking the pair of children more closely, she noticed there was a boy and a girl; both dressed in Native American “outfits”, she didn’t know how to explain it otherwise. Perhaps Edgar was the place where the Crow sent people to die.

  To live. To die.

  Penny’s face was locked into a scrunch. Her gut wrenched. What are you getting yourself into? To her right in the distance were the Pryor Mountains, which extended the Absoroka Range eastward along the Wyoming-Montana border. Above the mountains was a solid thick layer of black clouds, obsuring the top portion of the range and thousands of feet above.

  Life has I know it has changed.

  Penny looked to her right again, but inside the cab of her truck. Two munchkins, perhaps twins, looked back at her, not behaving like three-year olds at all, both silent, somehow aware that serious shit was happening and don’t bother the white lady who just saved us from the bad dogs (wolves).

  Where is their mother? Penny realized without thinking that there was no father; it was a generalization, but men flee commitment when in trouble; men run to protect themselves from danger, they hide, they cover. If someone is with them, they’ll cover the other person, but its by accident. Penny was pumped. What woman would leave two children to die in a collapsed trailer?

  The childen had spoken to her in a different language; not English, not Spanish. It had to be Crow. Someone on the Crow Reservation would know who these children were.

  The border between Montana and Wyoming, all the way from Yellowstone to the middle of the state, was blocked by a semi-broken line of mountains. The fact that the world was being turned upside down didn’t bother Penny as much as she had been thrown into the lives of two innocents.