by C. J. Howell
Tom skidded around the grill of the Malibu, flung open the door, and threw himself into the driver’s seat.
Jesus…the fuck you do?
Tom turned the key, still in the ignition, and floored it. The Malibu fishtailed violently and screeched onto the road, leaving a chunk of tire tread and a plume of burning rubber.
You really are fucking crazy!
No, Tom said matter of factly, regaining control of the Malibu and then accelerating as fast as it would go. You are fucking crazy.
Chapter 2
The Malibu barreled down the two lane state highway. They were heading due south. A column of black smoke shot toward the sky behind them.
Motherfucker you fucking did it now, we’re both going to jail. Man, do I always get fucked…Stupid, stupid, stupid! Lorne banged the side of his head with the palm of his hand.
It had to be done.
The fuck are you talking about?
Long story.
Oh we’ll have a lot of time to talk about it in County.
We’re cool.
But Tom had no idea if they were cool. Sweat streamed down his forehead. The sun burned above. The horizon shimmered with waves of heat. The Malibu topped a hundred and ten, taking up both lanes, straddling the yellow center line. No sound of sirens in the distance yet, not that they could have heard over the sound of the engine and the rush of wind through the open windows. No sign of police, but the problem with being on the run through the desert was the great distances. They couldn’t outrun a radio. What would they find at the first town down the line? Tom was determined not to find out. Five minutes and ten miles later Tom spotted an intersection approaching at light speed. He pumped the brakes and the Malibu weaved from side to side. U-joints buckling, Tom made a hard right onto a narrow county road heading west. The Malibu drifted wide and took out a reflector on the shoulder before straightening and accelerating back to speed. Maybe it would buy them a few minutes.
Lorne’s stringy hair was in his hands. He opened the remaining pint of Old Crow and drank half in series of gulps. He fingered the coin pocket of his jeans and popped something in his mouth.
The county road rose and fell over a series of dunes. The engine revved and the tach redlined as they crested the dunes and the wheels momentarily lost contact with the faded pavement. But Tom kept it on the road. The Malibu careening forward, the square chrome grill battering the breeze at a cool hundred miles per hour. The road wound behind a rocky outcropping and cut between sandstone boulders dotted with scrub brush. At least they were out of the line of sight of the highway and the burning transformer, which by now resembled a giant roman candle. Tom still didn’t feel safe. But he hadn’t felt safe in years.
Ahead there was a long white line that ran perpendicular, an intersecting dirt road stretching into infinity. Tom blew by it, not wanting a dust trail for someone to follow. Tom was thinking clearly, crystal clear, and fast, like right before he blew the transformer, but controlled, adrenaline cutting through the hunger and alcohol and sweat and filth that perpetually enveloped him.
Lorne finished the Old Crow and tossed the bottle out the window. He moved straight into the twelve of Natty Ice, a froth of foam, beer, and whiskey soaked his beard. He cranked the radio so it could be heard over the roar of the speeding Malibu.
Jesus, you’re crazy! he yelled and then gave one of his patented whooping yee-haws, drunk again. It was a good sign, Tom calculated, lessened the chances of Lorne turning him in, or attacking him, or leaving him out here to die. Not that Tom was going to take a chance of any of that happening by slowing down. Lorne was powerless as long as Tom kept the Malibu over a hundred mph.
Minutes were crucial. Put as much distance between them and the fire as possible, as unpredictably as possible, then try and blend, as unlikely a proposition as that seemed.
A vehicle approached from the west, coming the opposite direction, a dot on the horizon. Tom backed off the accelerator just enough to keep the Malibu in the right lane. A red pickup blew by going almost as fast as they were.
Damn, people drive fast out here, huh?
Not much to run into, Tom said pushing it to a hundred and twenty.
I like the way you think.
The road narrowed and the shoulder disappeared completely. The sides of the road were eroded by weather and neglect. Tom went back to straddling the center line. Hit the wrong chunk of broken asphalt on the edge and they’d barrel roll into obliteration.
A battered brown sign indicating a town and a distance flew by too fast to read. Lorne downed another beer—if Natty Ice could be called beer. Tom figured it was probably more precisely categorized as malt liquor and then quickly chastised himself for any wasted thought when the fate of the nation hung in the balance, not to mention Lorne and his lives, or at the very least, the possibility of lengthy prison terms. Lorne began cackling merrily. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself.
A few structures appeared on one side of the road. Tom didn’t slow down. From their distance he couldn’t tell if they were inhabited. He recognized a windmill and some fences, a few wooden outbuildings. As he sailed past he still couldn’t discern if they were in use or not.
Thirty miles later a paved road branched to the left. He slammed the brakes and skidded past it, coming to a stop a few hundred feet later. Smoke streamed from the tires and the smell of burning brake pads penetrated the moldy interior.
Jesus, ease up on my ride, man.
Tom wondered if Lorne could have already forgotten, if he appreciated the gravity of the situation. Tom spun the Malibu back around and headed south on State Route 312A.
He gunned the Malibu back up to speed but within two miles the road began to deteriorate. First cracks in the pavement with weeds filling the gaps, and then potholes rapidly increasing in size and depth. The road rose gradually as mountains on either side shot up around them. The road was maroon in color as if the dust from the rising sandstone cliffs had integrated into the asphalt over time.
The six gallons of gas they’d bought was already dwindling, but at this point, problems had to be prioritized. Still, with the road worsening, Tom backed way off the gas, dodging potholes and conserving speed when he could. He guessed the V-8 Malibu got less than ten miles per gallon doing over a hundred. Lorne started singing along with an old Dylan tape he put in the deck. Eyes watery he leaned way out the window.
The colors, the colors, he whispered to himself.
Tom slowed to under twenty miles an hour on hairpin turns. For an hour they ground up a mountain pass, gaining almost a mile in altitude. At the summit the afternoon heat was more diffuse with the sun already close to its hiding place behind the mesas. Cloud veins and contrails tinged with orange stretched to the white horizon. Through thin air the sky gave away traces of purple lurking a few hours in the future. A wind battered sign announced the summit of Barton Pass. A smaller sign read: Bartonville 5 miles. Sure enough, the road wound down tight switchbacks to a town wedged in between canyon walls. Tom put it in neutral to save gas and coasted the switchbacks until the brakes got too hot, and then he put it in first gear until they reached the bottom of the canyon where a small stream carrying mine tailings, shining acrylic blues and yellows, and metallurgic greens and silvers, ran over smooth rock to an unseen outlet. Up the canyon walls rocks balanced precariously, as if they could fall at any moment. There were no trees of any kind.
The road began to climb again through a notch in the canyon cut by weather and dynamite and then followed the stream to a town. Tom realized the town looked much larger from the summit because one side was a huge mine running up the side of the mountain. The main facility looked like a giant rusted castle made of sheet metal rising ten stories above the town, with spires of corrugated tin and rickety towers supported by a matrix of wooden beams. The mine was terraced on several levels cut directly into the mountain, walled in by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The actual town was a strip of houses and businesses along the ro
ad surrounded by the mine. As they entered the town they drove under a series of covered conveyor belts that ran ore from the mine to transport facilities on the other side of the road.
Tom pulled the Malibu up to a gas pump at a roadhouse directly underneath a mechanized chute carrying ore over the road and through the town to a small rail yard.
We need gas.
Lorne swung his head around in a loop that swiveled on his collar bone. His eyes tilted up, pupils clear, but dilated to the whites. He exhaled deeply.
Here.
Lorne flipped through his wallet and held out a twenty.
Tom hesitated.
No, I can’t take that.
Don’t be a fuckhead.
No, I mean, I can’t take the bill…you pay.
Lorne held up hands incredulously. What are we six years old? Lorne shrugged his shoulders and pushed his way out of the Malibu.
I’ll meet you inside, Tom apologized. I need to eat something.
Tom desperately needed to eat something. He felt lightheaded. His breath was short. His limbs felt limp. He fumbled with the gas pump. Dust blew over the curb and across the two-pump lot and gathered alongside the white aluminum siding of the roadhouse. A sign reading ‘BAR’ in black stenciled letters banged against the aluminum siding with the rhythm of the wind. Tom put twenty in the tank and then parked the car, reversing into a space alongside the roadhouse so the Malibu faced out toward the road. Cool air funneled down the sheer canyon walls, devoid of any vegetation.
A bell jingled overhead as Tom pulled open the door to the roadhouse. Inside, it felt like a doublewide. He had to bend his head to get beyond the screen door. To the right were two rows of snack foods, bags of chips, and peanuts, salted and honeyed, and assorted cured meats, jerkyed and dry rubbed. To the left, past the register and a stand of knickknacks, key chains, and shot glasses, was Lorne at the bar with a pitcher of beer in front him. A thirty- or forty-something blonde sat on the beer cooler and eyed the corner television. Two old-timers were anchored at the far end of the bar.
I’ll get the tab. Tom pulled up a barstool. I’m gonna get a burger.
Tom was thinking about the emergency cans in his backpack stashed in the backseat of the Malibu. But he needed a meal, and Lorne on his side.
You want a burger?
Tom ordered two burgers and fries from the bartender. Lorne cocked his head at a severe angle and looked at Tom through clumps of hair.
Two things. First, I got the gas and I’ll get the tab. Money’s only good if you spend it. Second, you gotta keep driving. I ate some acid right after you torched that transformer and it’s starting to kick in.
The words seemed to come out of Lorne’s mouth, orbit Tom’s head for a few rotations, and then ricochet around the room. Tom froze. Lorne had just connected them to the recent arson in front of at least three witnesses. Yet the witnesses didn’t seem to hear. Like a good shoplifter who steals so openly that bystanders don’t register it as a theft. Lorne had also announced to the bar that he was tripping, which had not generated interest either. Lorne did seem weirder than usual.
Put this in the jukebox, will you? Lorne extended a five. His hand shook. Five bucks seemed like a ridiculous amount to spend on a few songs.
You put it in, music’s your thing.
Okay. Unsteady, Lorne negotiated the barstools to the jukebox, holding onto tables to take the weight off the cast foot.
The burgers arrived and the smell about made Tom weep. He bit into his burger like a bite of soft-serve on a hot day. The juices, a scalding mix of blood and grease, exploded in his mouth. He felt as if he were eating strength itself. When the burger was gone he ate the pickle and the garnish. He dumped ketchup on his plate and methodically ate his fries, spooning the ketchup, until his plate was clean. He poured himself a beer from the pitcher and drank it in heavy gulps. Life breathed back into him. He ordered another pitcher and drank deeply. He felt good. On a full stomach he could think again.
The first song from Lorne’s set came on, an old Hank Williams tune. Tom figured they were about seventy-five miles and a few right angle turns from the fire. Maybe across county lines if they were lucky. Tom planned to keep going south. If they got to Arizona they might be all right. Lorne picked at his burger, more interested in his fingers than his food. Maybe no one was after them at all. Tom was having difficulty telling what was real anymore.
What do they mine here? Lorne asked the barmaid as she topped off his glass.
Nothing since Phelps Dodge shut her down five years back. Used to be the biggest copper mine in the state.
The old-timers at the end of the bar perked up at talk of the mine.
They still pulling some outta that mountain, piped in a tiny old man in a fleece-lined windbreaker, an old crumpled miner behind a beer mug.
Most folks left in town just work as security guards for the mine, or do maintenance, skeleton crew, the barmaid continued.
Copper? Lorne said. They should mine gold instead. More money in gold, Lorne nodded to no one in particular. They ignored his comment.
I see ’em sometimes. They come with a small crew, sometimes, deep in the mountain, pulling rock out of there.
They ain’t mining up there anymore, Emmit.
Tom’s mind started up again. What were they doing up there? The Network would have many uses for a clandestine mine. One out of the way, fenced off, one everyone thought was closed. No. Tom fought it. Not his problem, not here, not now.
Well, they doing something up there, geological surveys or something at least.
I’m sure they’re doing all kinds of shit, but scaling back up again ain’t one of ’em.
Didn’t say it was. Emmit made a motion with his hand like he was brushing her off.
Tom wondered what was going on in that mine. The old-timer and the barmaid argued half-heartedly, an old argument, one they’d had before. Lorne chimed in with non-sequiturs but they didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they liked Lorne. He laughed at everything they said, fully engaged, drinking and dancing haphazardly on his peg leg. You’re all right son, they told him.
On the third pitcher, Tom lost the strength of a full stomach and felt the bluntness of beer. The mine was on his mind. Even if the Network wasn’t here, and he was now beginning to believe they were, these people should be set free. A dying town with a couple dozen people left, chained to the corpse of the mine, too scared to leave. They’d be better off if the mine was truly gone forever, burned to the ground. But that wasn’t really his fight…wasn’t really real…wasn’t real.
He turned to Lorne. You know I took this music class in college…I was a chemistry major so I took the easiest classes I could find for my non-science classes. I could have been a music minor even though I never played an instrument and can’t sing a note. So this music class, was an ethnomusicology class really, was basically about how you can’t study music, or anything else, without understanding that you are part of the equation. There were only two of us in this class, me and a young woman who had grotesquely large breasts. I don’t mean in an attractive way, it was like a deformity, triple E or some size that’s off the chart. Seriously, she probably had to have her bras special made, like she had a whole other person growing horizontally out of her chest. We’d have class outside sometimes, since it was just the two of us and the professor, and when she’d sit cross legged her breasts would actually rest on the ground. And she wasn’t fat, but not pretty. All we did in this class was read one book, Hermeneutics: The Art of Understanding. The art of understanding. I like that, you know, like understanding was an art. All we’d do is read the book out loud. It was this dense, post-modern, deconstructionist linguistic theory. Really hard to understand. We only got through a page or two a day. And the whole point of the book was that you can’t study anything without affecting the thing you study. So me, this girl, and the professor, this middle-aged Jewish woman who had lived with Rastafarians on some Caribbean Island and taught classes on reggae and blue
s, would struggle through this linguistic theory, and here was this perfect example of hermeneutics, this girl, who went through life with this obscene physical oddity, these cartoonishly huge breasts, like a sideshow attraction, and how that must color everything she understands about the world. The art of understanding was understanding that who you are affects how you understand something. I think, of late, I’ve completely forgotten that lesson.
You create your own reality?
I’m afraid so.
Cool. Hey listen, you wanna go check out that mine?
Yeah.
Chapter 3
Hailey’s Sunday was ruined. Special Agent Hailey Garrett, Federal Bureau of Investigation, part time, switched on her scanner and knew Sunday was ruined. The fire at the mine made it a federal matter, but it was the fire at the power substation thirty miles south of Price that worried her. Two fires within twelve hours in that sparse country was quite a coincidence. And Hailey had been in law enforcement long enough not to believe in coincidence.
She put on her morning pot of coffee. In the time it took to brew she did the math and knew it didn’t add up. As far as motive, there were plenty of reasons to torch the mine, insurance money, revenge of a laid off miner, even hiding environmental waste or impeding an investigation were possibilities. But none of those reasons would explain the power station. That left vandalism, which she was sure would eventually become the operating theory of the Sheriff’s Department. But it didn’t seem likely to Hailey. The delinquents and losers prone to that kind of behavior around here were holed up in trailers or basements doing meth. They spent their time doing meth or getting meth. A completely random act of vandalism simply wouldn’t occur to them. Their crimes would be for some sort of pecuniary gain, no matter how small or temporary. That left teenagers. The ‘those darn kids’ explanation, as Hailey thought of it. But she kept track of the local high school kids, at least the ones who drove (particularly the attractive football players, of which there were exactly three: Ray Thompson, Matthew Baker, and Ryan Harris) and she couldn’t see any of them committing the crime. Most of the kids were Mormons, and as a general rule, Mormon kids did not rebel. The few who did, rebelled in one of three predictable ways: 1) dressed inappropriately and listened to inappropriate music (or refused to listen to the right music, K-DOG 101 FM Country) 2) gave or received handjobs in parked cars or 3) left town. As far as anyone who fell through the cracks, well, they were tweakers and spent their time doing, buying, or making meth.
