by James Kiehle
“I never met any of them in my life,” Russ said, covering the last of the holes.
The warm Gatorade tasted like sweat. Leo wiped his mouth and asked, “It seemed like the right thing to do or something?”
“Or something,” Russ replied, taking both shovels back.
Together, they’d been able to bury nearly fourteen people, and were completely exhausted by the time the sun disappeared behind the trees. It was sometime after nine, Russ supposed, and becoming twilight.
“Well, I figure I’ve earned some food,” Leo said. “Maybe you know a lean-to I might rent, too? I saw a rooftop not too far from here, but damned if I can find it.”
Russ set down his shovel. “I might have just the thing,” he replied.
“What’s that?”
“A cabin in the woods.”
They marched up the road, passing scores of vehicles.
Leo stood by a seasoned Ford pickup with a dented grill near the gate. “You checked out these rigs?” The driver had probably made a run at the fence or the gate in an effort to ram it and knock it down, but failed.
“All of the ones that didn’t make me puke,” Russ said.
“Chances are we can get some of these things to work someday.” Leo patted the hood. “This old fellow here might just need some drying out—might get gasoline from the tanks, too. We could be driving a fleet here before long.”
Russ had to laugh. “I’d settle for a boat. Trade in all these busted-up Suburbans for a busted-up Maverick Mirage and get across the lake.”
The stocky man grinned behind a several-day growth. “I used to have a forty-foot Marquis Yachts Sport Cruiser hardtop with twin Volvo four-thirty-fives. It’s sunk now, out there in that lake.”
“What happened to it?”
Leo laughed—infectious, and Russ joined him. God, it felt good to laugh.
“You would not believe me if I told you,” Leo said.
“Try me?”
“Alright, the long version, and I’m serious,” Leo said. “I was sailing on the Columbia when the bombs went off and I blacked out. The next thing I knew, my boat was somewhere around here, listing in a lake, sinking to the bottom.”
After a silence, expecting more, Russ asked, “That’s the long version? You are truly a man of few words.”
“Yep,” Leo grinned. Tabor had short gray-and-black hair, big arms, not muscular but strong, and a thick chest with hair like Fozzie Bear. His name struck a chord.
“You know, there’s a camera-shy billionaire with your name,” Russ fished. “Leo Tabor. Any relation? You, perhaps?”
“He’s an asshole,” Leo smirked. “I’m just an ordinary guy.”
“With a couple billion in the bank,” Russ smiled.
“Give or take.”
“Want to invest in a very soggy newspaper?” Russ asked.
•
To top it off, Glen had the runs.
Paden figured he was living the last days of his life and this was no way to go, pooping yourself to death. He’d kill for a bullet if this went on much longer. As he walked slowly through the woods, feeling increasingly weak, Glen caught wind of a smell that made him hurry his pace.
Meat cooking.
Tracking the source of the smell, Paden walked a long way and it was close to sundown when the smoke got thicker and he could hear voices.
Paden crept up carefully, not certain who else would be alive, his senses fully in tune. He saw a flame through the low brush and was mindful not to step on branches or make any noise.
There, ten feet in front of him, were four men dressed in bright orange uniforms such as transportation department workers might wear, and gnawing on parts of a deer that was hung on a pole upside down over a makeshift spit.
Paden was impressed. The dudes didn’t appear starved. They were mostly big men; the only one who wasn’t built like a bear silently crouched behind Paden and put what might have been a gun barrel in his back.
“Enjoying the show, amigo?” the man asked.
•
Seeing the Temple Mountain Lodge, Leo’s mouth dropped open almost comically. “You are a master of understatement, Russ.” After feeling the exterior wood and blinking his eyes a few times, Tabor said, “Some lean-to you’ve got here, pal. I expected a cabin but this—do you call it El Dorado or Shangrila?”
“For now, I call it home,” Russ said and opened the main door. They entered a room held up by columns of thick, old growth Douglas firs so wide it would take four people just to hug one.
“Built in 1936 by the WPA,” Russ told him. “Roosevelt sent his cousin to dedicate it. And the rent is cheap.”
From the far corner, footsteps, and the two men turned when Daria entered the room. She looked sensational—hair brushed and styled, wearing some makeup, her lips splashed with the color of a persimmon. She wore a retro-style house dress that would have looked fashionable on Loretta Young.
Daria lifted her skirt a fraction, curtsied, and twirled.
“Like it? I found it in a storage room. All kinds of goodies in there,” she said, walking towards them, extending her hand. “So, is this the new neighbor? Did he bring us a pie?”
Tabor laughed. It sounded forced.
“Leo Tabor,” he said, shaking her hand like he was using a jack to fix a tire. “I’m here from Portland.”
“And I’m Daria Lane—or something,” she said, her arm pumped. “From parts unknown.”
“Pardon?” Leo asked.
“I have amnesia.” Daria gave him a nice smile. “I can’t remember anything. My brain went pflooie.”
Tabor looked her over. Seemed sane enough to him. And what a smile.
Russ chimed back in, “Well, there are only three of us, so last names don’t matter much. It’s not like we’ll get anyone confused.”
Daria looked quizzically at Russ.
“Who are you again?”
•
Paden couldn’t have stumbled onto a more bizarre crowd.
Five convicts.
The small one who sneaked up behind Paden, Cassidy, was criminally far more advanced than Glen ever had been; Good Fellas career-minded since a stint in Juvie during freshman high where he learned his skill with a blade.
But the leader of the bunch was one Edgar Bolton—aka Bolt—a man so big he shaded Paden like an eclipse as he towered over him. Well-known in Oregon as a rabid anti-everything activist, not in a political sense, but criminal, Bolt left a felonious trail in his wake, though few of his crimes were proven. He’d been sent up this time for simple assault after Bolt punched a guy who called him ‘gay’ in a police lockup, telling the guy, “I’m not gay, I’m just happy.”
Edgar Bolton loved prison, and missed it, even though now and then he needed to escape, see the world, then rob a liquor store, get caught and go home. Charges of battery, robbery, assault with intent, and attempted kidnapping all blotted his record. Murder charges were also pending, not that this mattered now.
The other three cons were almost stock, straight from Central Casting: Burgess, Wire and Calderon. Three thickheads who might have been named the Tattoo Bunch. Wire was an Alaskan, the thickest of the crew, with jet-black hair, a wide face like an Eskimo, and a barbed wire tattoo around his neck; his shoulders were no wider than a sofabed, his arms like a side of beef.
Calderon was a good-looking and wiry Mexican with a soul patch; his arms were tattooed like sections of a Diego Rivera mural. He was Bolton’s main squeeze.
Burgess was the least threatening of the crew—his chest tattoo read Love, or so Glen thought. Later, Burgess revealed the full text: Love to Kill. But in comparison to the others, Burgess seemed warm and lovable. A regular Panda Bear who didn’t talk much.
To Glen, they were all flat-out frightening mofos, far worse than he could ever be. Paden could see the path he’d been on would lead straight to here if he let it and this bothered him.
“What’s your story, tinkerbelle?” Burgess asked.
“I
don’t like that name,” Paden replied. “Call me cupcake.”
He got the laugh he hoped for, so Paden told his tale while Bolt hungrily chewed on the venison, taking double portions. When Glen was through, Bolt gave him three claps for applause.
“So you joined the blood club, Paden. Good for you. But you’re still in the junior leagues,” Bolt said. “Shame your first snuff was a friend.”
“Not a friend,” Paden countered. “A business associate.”
“Oh, well, then,” Bolton said. “That makes it all copacetic.”
•
The next day, Daria was awake early and prepared some bread. When the men were finally awake, she fried some bacon and eggs for them. Before going off to continue the burials, the three went through the lodge and took things they could use.
Daria, a wunderkind of procurement, had not only surveyed the lodge, but had drawn a detailed floor plan and made a comprehensive list of the food stocks. She was showing the men a room she’d found in the dark basement when Leo, trailing behind, called out, “Hey, folks, there’s something good here.”
“What is it?” Daria asked.
“This is a Leader 14000X5,” Leo answered.
Russ peered at the contraption. Painted yellow, the core appeared to house an engine.
“A generator?” Russ asked.
“Yep.”
“For electricity?” Daria wondered. “How does it operate?”
Leo slapped his hand down on the machine and stroked it. He seemed to know the unit.
“Most of these run on diesel, but this one, she goes on gas. We may have to move it outside, though. It smells like shit.”
“Gasoline?” she asked, then she whirled around looking for gas cans and spotted one; a bright red plastic container up on a shelf. “Here we go, here we go.” She ran over to it and lifted it in the air.
“Empty,” she announced glumly.
Leo came over and took it from her.
“Not for long,” he said.
They found two other empty cans and all trotted down to the road with the cans and a short plastic hose. Daria, seeing the multiple corpses on the road, threw up immediately. The odor was horrific.
“After we’ve got the gas, I’ll help you guys move the rest of the bodies.”
But Russ just stood still for a moment, considering something.
“I’ve listened to reason,” Russ told her. “You were right. We’ll burn them instead.”
Daria didn’t argue but said, “Alright, I’ll still help you move them.”
Leo used the hose to extract gas from car tanks for three of the containers, then filled the fourth with diesel; even though they had no need for it now, storing it might prove helpful later.
They transferred the batch of fuel back to the basement and an hour later Leo had the electricity going. Daria bounced up and down, and clapped and cheered. The only room that really needed power was the kitchen and, in particular, the refrigerator and freezer, so Leo was rerouting the circuits.
“How long do these generators go?” Russ asked over the hum and whine of the motor.
Leo scratched his chin. “As I recall, about fifteen hours. What we might do is crank it up several times a day for short durations. That way the freezer and fridge will get cold and maintain coolness for a longer period of time and we waste less energy.”
“What we really need to do is find a place to store all the gasoline,” Perry said. “Some big drum or something. Maybe we can find one around here.”
A detailed search of the lodge yielded nothing and the noise of the generator was annoying enough that they went upstairs and drank coffee for a long time.
They checked the thermostat in the freezer after awhile and found the temperature was falling. The Kenmore refrigerator was also cooling and they let it run for a bit, then shut it down. They fist-bumped each other, then left the lodge and went about the unpleasant business of picking up corpses.
It took them most of the day but between the three they managed to place all the dead they could find in a pile several feet high. They figured that the winds were too strong to set off the fire before sunset when the winds would usually begin to lessen, if not disappear. The last thing they needed was for a forest fire to break out.
Pleased that they had accomplished at least one major task, the trio began to rummage through cars and vans and minivans and trucks and campers, looking for any final things that might prove useful. Most of the vehicles had a lingering stench of death.
Still, there were all kinds of treasures in them, particularly in the campers. In one were tins of food. Sardines. Oysters. Kippers. There were also some six-packs of soft drinks and two cases of beer.
Daria found a suitcase with some women’s clothing in it and held a blouse against her torso.
She turned to Russ and asked, “Does this make me look fat?”
Whoever had owned it evidently weighed five hundred pounds.
“Hang onto it,” Perry replied. “We can use it for a tent.”
Farther up the road, Leo found a handy device in a U.S. Forest Service van that he stuffed into a knapsack for later use. He didn’t mention the discovery to the others, preferring to surprise them with it.
One newer truck had been knocked on its side and the inside lining of the door had ripped away. Within the frame they found about an ounce of marijuana and at least ten grams of cocaine. Russ stood up to toss the coke away but Daria stopped him.
“Look, I’m no cokehead, I don’t think, but I know it can be used to numb pain, so we might think about keeping it,” she said. “Up to you guys, though.”
“Good point,” Leo said.
“And the pot?” Daria asked, a somewhat hopeful look in her eyes.
Leo and Russ read each other’s expressions.
“I found some Zigzags in that Suburban,” Leo smiled.
33. Torrents
In the common room of the Mt. Cochiti New Mexico observatory, Cage counted his money again. Five hundred and thirty nine dollars.
“Okay, who stiffed me?” Ben asked. “The ante’s shy a buck.”
Pinkie, laying on the sofa, feet propped on its arm, was the first to laugh. “So fucking what, Señor Puffy? You think money means anything now? What’s it backed up with? Gold? Radioactive oil? The Federal Reserve of Botswana? It’s worthless.”
“It’s the principal,” Ben said. “How do I know you people can be trusted if you’d hold out on me? And what’s this Puffy business still?”
“You’re pissed about a buck? A worthless piece of paper?” Dutch barked.
“Puffy. Your hair. You’re like a Chia pet.”
“Here,” Dutch said and slammed a bill on the table. “Here’s your cash. Sorry. Thought I’d salt it away for a rainy day, maybe buy half a pack of gum. I should have put a down payment on Davis Cass’s coffin.” Cass had died of a heart attack following the first blast. They didn’t bury him but pushed his body off a cliff.
“It’s my debt,” Pinkie said. “I owe you, not him. He’s being a gentleman. I was being a bitch.”
“Why?” Ben asked.
“Because I couldn’t before now. Grip-locked by the Man. There were rules and there was order. Now I’m free. I can do whatever the fuck I want. I choose to be a bitch.”
Edwin Dark was trying to ignore them. He trained binoculars on the valley below and the ominous clouds farther off.
“That rainy day will be today,” Edwin said. “We’ve got some angry looking clouds on the horizon. Cumulonimbus to the extreme.”
Ben now saw the massive steel-colored cloud bank and knew it meant trouble. He was thankful they had the shelter because this monster heading their way wasn’t smiling.
“That’s going to open up big time,” Edwin said, holding a hand over his eyes, squinting through the plate glass. “Chance of measurable precipitation: One hundred percent. Chance of tornadic activity: twenty percent.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weather,” Pinkie said.
; Dutch Sparks said, “How long do you figure? Give me a time. Gentlemen, lady, place your bets.” It seemed that everything had become a wager with Sparks lately. After they’d survived the Santa Fe blast and he’d coughed up his cash, Sparks had been hell bent on games—“How many coffee beans are in that bag?” …“What do you bet tonight we see more than 10 shooting stars?”— just dumb stuff.
“I’ll even go first. Nine minutes,” Dutch announced. “How much?”
Clearly, Dutch was bored. They all were. There was little to do but watch the clouds during the day, the sky at night and read back issues of Scientific American. Food was at a premium. They’d already broken the vending machine to take out the candies and crackers and Cheetos, and were pretty much down to licorice.
Worse, they were getting on each other’s nerves. It had been many days of this and Pinkie, with a fairly sadistic streak, tormented all three with taunts and barbs and pointed questions about manhood.
“You boys need a new hobby,” she said. “Take up Barbie doll collecting, or Texas Hold ‘em. Play that. Get away from the window.”
“Twelve minutes,” Ben answered, slapping the bill on the counter. “I’ll put this rogue dollar right back on the line.”
“Your guess is always twelve,” Edwin said, disgusted.
“Sweet,” Dutch said. “Moreland, you in?”
“Pass.”
Pinkie wasn’t playing, not after having lost the coffee bean bet by six beans. She’d even accused Dutch of cheating, counting out the beans before he made the wager. Since then, she just tumbled her eyes at his goofy game ideas.
“Four minutes, tops,” Dark said, laying down his bill. Edwin had yet to win a single round, but he kept trying. “Looks like the beginning of a squall line to me.”
Cage was peering at the big scope, which sat immobile.
“I wish we could move Betsy around,” Ben said. “I’m missing the show without the lens. A2H-5 is out there waiting for me and the naked eye just doesn’t cut it.”
“You might want to look for another line of work, Dr. Puffy,” Pinkie said. “That piece of shit ain’t moving an iota.”
“Stop calling me that,” Ben said.
