"They can deduct it from my next paycheck."
"I never knew pilots got paid so well."
"I'm a cartographer, remember?"
Karl was trying to pull the nose back straight again but was having difficulty. A Texaco gas sign with a "Turn here for gasoline" logo of a little hunched-up driver with lit-up eyes hit the right side window and scattered glass all over them before scouring along the side of the plane, but at least it turned the nose slightly to the right again.
"That's a little better," Karl shouted, still struggling, "but we're going to hit the buildings."
It sounded as though he was talking only to himself and Ronnie braced himself again on the dashboard. "OK," he said. It seemed so ineffective. Oh really? That's nice. Thanks for letting us know. "Angel?"
"Yes?"
"I want you to brace yourself, OK?"
"OK."
The plane suddenly leapt upwards and then crashed down again, then slumped to one side.
"We lost a wheel housing," Karl said.
"How bad is that?" Ronnie barely stopped before adding, on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst. The truth was, at this stage, he didn't really want to know.
There was no answer. Then, "OK, here we go. Either of you like books?"
The gaudily-lit windows of a Barnes and Noble store were coming towards them.
Somewhere, a car horn was honking, honking, honking.
A dull whump! sounded but Ronnie couldn't tell whether it was outside or from behind them. Then it didn't matter: shards of glass cascaded through the front windows while concrete and masonry – and books, lots of books – showered down around the plane's nose.
Another crash – definitely from behind them this time – and a strained scraping sound were followed by a security alarm someplace outside, the wail dopplering towards them and then past them.
Angel shouted.
"You OK?" Ronnie yelled over his shoulder.
Angel didn't answer immediately. She was too busy leaning forward and looking straight down the aisle of the passenger cabins. Many of the overhead lockers had sprung open, catapulting bags and coats and – Angel noticed – an acoustic guitar and a saxophone case, the black case sprung open and the instrument now lying just a few yards from the door to the cockpit.
"Angel?" Ronnie was straining to turn while keeping his hands on the dashboard.
Angel shouted, "I'm OK," and then, "all the stuff's falling out of the lockers." But nobody responded so she settled back into her seat.
The plane sloughed to the other side now. The other wheel housing, Ronnie thought. He considered asking Karl–
Hey, how many wheels did we have when we started out?
–but the map-reader seemed a little too preoccupied.
Ronnie turned from the chaos outside and watched Karl instead. He was pulling on what looked for all the world like a giant trunk- or gas-cap-release lever, the tendons on his neck standing proud like guiders. Karl placed his free hand on top of the other, the right one, and doubled the power of his pull. Ronnie saw his thumb going white.
"Hey. We're slowing down," Angel Wurst shouted.
It was true. Ronnie looked down aisles of bookshelves, the flooring buckled and littered with books – paperback books, hardcovers, fiction, non-fiction – it all seemed so normal. But Ronnie didn't think there'd be anyone in to buy anything for a while. Maybe never again. Who knew. So yes, they were slowing down, but the momentum of the plane was still such that they could not force themselves forwards in their seats. A piece of wooden planking suddenly sprang out from beneath a coil of matting, the matting swirling like coffee steam and the planking sliding forward, propelled by some constriction behind it, such constriction presumably the result of the impacting plane nose on the front of the store. Yin and yang. Cause and effect. All of the above.
"Shit!" was all Karl seemed able to come up with, and as he reached down to hit the release catch on the seat-belt contraption, the plank came through the left side of the already shattered windscreen, breaking up what few sections of glass remained and carrying on forward until it hit Karl on the right shoulder and spun him and his chair around the way a storm will send a garbage can lid pirouetting along the sidewalk. Then the plank kept on going though Ronnie assumed it was the plane that was carrying on while the plank remained stationary. He certainly hoped that the resounding crack! was the chair being torn from its mountings and nothing at all to do with the map-reader's shoulder.
Karl went face down, still attached to his chair seat buckle system.
Ronnie turned around to watch him and saw the pilot (yessir, he was a pilot now!) get somehow twisted around so that he was on his side staring down the plane, out of the pilots' cabin – the door was hanging askew as though it had been blown open: how had that happened? – through into the First Class area and then Business Class and finally, way down the plane, Standard or Economy or whatever word they used to dress up "inferior". As Ronnie turned around again he was suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of the different grades.
And then he realized that nobody was holding the wheel.
Ronnie reached out and grabbed a hold of the steering column and pushed it forward. It seemed like the right thing to do and Ronnie dearly hoped with all his might that the plane would not suddenly lift itself up and head off into the sky again, trailing behind it a three-story Borders storefront and a few thousand books. Just one more time around the park, driver and then take us home.
But no, they were coming to a stop, the plank now having pushed itself right over Karl and lodged into the corner housing at the rear of the flight cabin. He couldn't move anything except for his left arm and hand. The plank had turned over the entire seat housing and pinned him to the floor. Even his head he couldn't move – it was jammed against the radio and listening equipment. And his glasses were gone again.
Karl ran a mental hand over his body searching for breaks or – even worse! – leaks. Breaks could be fixed, he'd always thought, might even fix themselves, given time. But leaks of the dreaded red stuff usually signaled problemo alert. He seemed to be OK, although his shoulder felt like it had been pulverized with one of those little wooden hammers you use to tenderize steak. Karl thought his shoulder was pretty much 100% tenderized.
The sound of a belt buckle release was followed by heavy breathing and a scuffling noise. Then Karl heard Ronnie say, in a soft voice which he knew was not directed at him, "Are you OK?" Then he heard the girl – he'd forgotten her name now: Emily something? – he heard her say sure, she was OK.
"That was quite a ride," she finished off.
He heard Ronnie agree. And then another snap of a belt buckle and more scrabbling, until Ronnie's face suddenly appeared in front of him.
"How you doing in there?"
"I'm a little cramped. And I think my shoulder may be shot."
"Shot?"
"You know, messed up. Took the full force of that wood right on it. Doesn't hurt too much right now but I'm guessing it will soon."
Ronnie nodded and looked around somewhere off behind Karl's back.
"How's it look? I can hardly move a finger in here."
The girl appeared – Angel, not Emily (where the hell had Emily come from?), Angel Wurst – and gave him a smile. "Great driving," she said.
Karl forced a smile – something was sticking into his back, maybe something that had broken free from the seat, which he was still pinned into beneath what appeared to be a series of wooden planks, a lot of electrical wiring, some powdery masonry and some ripped carpeting. There was even a book – Karl could see the page edges though he didn't know what it was. But he was too uncomfortable to think about reading. And anyway, his glasses were gone again.
"Can you see my glasses anywhere? They're gone again."
"I'm going to check you out back here," Ronnie said. "Give me a minute." He moved off to Ronnie's left of vision and Ronnie felt a slight easing of pressure on his left leg. Then, with a grunt from Ron
nie, the pressure returned, quickly followed by Ronnie.
Angel shuffled herself forward so that she was able to reach her right arm beneath Karl's neck. She moved her arm around and then, with a yelp, pulled it out again. She was holding Karl's glasses.
"Good girl! You think you can fit them onto my nose?"
"You're jammed in real tight back there," Ronnie said from somewhere over near the instruments. "I don't see any way I'm going to get you out, particularly as the entire floor of the third story of Barnes and Noble Bookshop seems to be resting on your seat."
Karl felt an immediate wave of panic and it was all he could do to keep from weeping and begging. They were going to leave him here. They couldn't do that. Could they? "So, what… what are you gonna do?" he asked.
"I think all we can do is look for some help, maybe bring some tools to try cutting through some of this wood." He slapped one of the planks for emphasis. "No way we can move it ourselves."
"You think there's anyone out there?"
Karl could feel cold air coming into the cabin and he strained to hear a voice calling out to offer help, but there was only the gentle soughing of the wind and ticking noises as the aircraft settled around him. He'd done OK. Karl closed his eyes and felt a single tear force its way out.
"Anyone's guess," Ronnie said, so long after the event that Karl had forgotten the question he'd asked. "No sign of anyone so far."
"How do we get out?" Angel asked.
"You can hit the emergency switch on either of the exit doors. It'll blow the door and run an inflatable chute – you can slide down onto the tarmac."
"And how'd we get back? With tools and all?"
Karl could not have explained the feeling of excitement he felt at that moment so instead he shook his head, hoping the emotion would pass and enable him to speak. "With difficulty," he said, unable to keep the smile from his voice. "I'm just glad that coming back is on your agenda."
Ronnie reached a hand into the debris and patted Karl's face. "Hey, you think we were just going to leave you?"
Karl looked up at him and shook his head, frowning. "Nah," he said.
Ronnie smiled back and nodded. "OK," he said. "We'll see you later." He patted his face again. "You did good."
"You too."
Minutes later, Karl watched the backs of Ronnie and the girl walk down the aisle to the center door. He heard the door pop and clatter outside someplace and then the whoosh of the chute. After that, and the distant sound of muted voices and running footsteps, there was only the wind and the faint sound of pages flickering.
(8)
The two or three miles down into Jesman's Bend were as silent as the valley had been just minutes earlier.
The initial euphoria of Geoff's solution that Jerry had walked into town was eroded almost as soon as they were back in Geoff's Dodge. The reason, quite simply, was the radio. They picked up KMRT OK, heard Melanie introduce Andy Williams singing 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You', smiled at each other–
Yep, everything is just fine…
–and then Rick went and spoiled it all by turning the tuning dial.
He couldn't have put into words why he turned the goddamned dial but he did it. And–
Nope, everything isn't just fine… Everything isn't just fine at all…
–all they could pick up was static.
"Maybe it's some kind of massive electrical charge," Rick ventured. "Blown out…" he waved his arms like a huge flower opening its petals "I dunno… blown out all the transmitters or something."
He looked across at Geoff and saw his brother raise his eyebrows.
"And," Rick continued, "we can only pick up Mel because we're so close to our own transmitter."
Then, turning out of the curve alongside Frank and Eleanor Dawson's house into Main Street, they saw the blue and white wrapped around the fire hydrant.
"I don't think so," Geoff said, his voice suddenly sounding tired. "I don't think it's that simple."
Geoff slowed right down as they went by the car. It was Don Patterson's, easily recognized by the furry tail on the radio antenna. Most times either of them saw that furry tail, they had to smile. But this time, it just didn't seem funny. This time it seemed awfully sad. Almost pitiful.
"No point in getting out," Rick said.
"Uh uh. Car's empty."
"Maybe…" Rick started to say something, suggest some way that such things could happen in their town that would make everything seem right, but he gave up after just the one word and closed his mouth tight. There was no maybe about it. Something was awfully wrong.
Further along Main Street, Martha McNeil's Diner was ablaze with interior lights. Geoff pulled the Dodge into the sidewalk, parked it between an old Chevy two-tone that was more rust than paint and a little continental job with a floor-shift and a rear-mounted engine, and they got out.
The street was more than silent: it was like a canvas before the paint got put onto it. Empty, devoid of life instead of just sleeping.
"You know," Geoff said, placing his hand on the hood of the Chevy like he was seeing if the engine was still warm, "why do I feel that we're not going to find anyone here in town?"
Rick's face was pressed up against the diner window, looking past his own reflection into the strip-neon-lit interior, staring at the littered counter, the plates of half-eaten food, mugs of coffee, pieces of cutlery lying some on the plate, some on the counter and one or two on the floor behind the foot rail. He shifted to one side so he could get a look into the back, where Martha herself did the cooking, best plates of pancakes and flapjacks in the State. The kitchen was deserted.
"Where'd they go?" Rick said stepping away from the window and out onto the street. He didn't expect an answer and wasn't disappointed when he didn't get one.
"You think maybe it was some kind of radiation?" Geoff turned around and looked at his brother. "I'm just grasping at things here, you understand."
"Hey, grasp away."
"Well, like maybe the military came in and evacuated everybody."
"Including Don from his smashed up car? Jerry from his pickup? And how come they didn't come for us? How come nobody even called us up and told us?"
He turned around, hands on hips, and shook his head. "And how'd they do it so fast? And–" He pointed down the street away from the stores, where the houses sprouted picket fences and grass so close-cut you'd have thought it had been trimmed using scissors. "Nobody leaving their door open. We knock on those doors, there's gonna be no reply. So, if they all just high-tailed it out of here with the military, in such a dad-burned rush, how come everyone remembered to close their door?"
"We don't know for sure that–"
Rick stepped onto the sidewalk, his shadow disappearing into the broadening shadow of the diner's roof. "So let's find out."
"Rick…"
"Yeah?"
Geoff looked at his kid brother's face, studied the eyes and, in them, saw the same fears and uncertainty that sprawled in his own heart. Rick was bigger than him but Geoff always felt the need to care of his kid brother. "It'll be OK," he said, and winked.
They stepped inside the diner, listening for sounds and hearing nothing.
• • • •
All that was needed to complete the effect was an occasional tumbleweed blowing across Main Street and maybe the wind whistling around the saloon swing doors. But there were no saloon swing doors in Jesman's Bend.
In fact, there was nothing there at all… at least nothing alive.
Martha McNeil's diner had been as silent as the grave. Plates of food half-eaten, mugs half full of coffee – now cool to the touch – a jacket slung over one of the booth stools (Jim Ferumern's, his wallet still in his pocket: forty-six dollars in bills plus a picture of his wife, Jacqui, and the two boys – Geoff didn't remember their names, if he'd ever known them – and a bunch of coins that slipped out of a side pocket and clattered to Martha's linoleum floor), and a magazine lying open on the counter beside a half cup of
coffee and a Danish with a bite out of it: Book, open at a spread about a bookstore in New York, The Mysterious Bookshop. Turning the magazine over to look at the cover, Rick dropped crumbs onto the counter from the open spread – the kind of crumbs that made him mad when he was reading: crumbs on the magazine – he always knocked them off or took more care eating.
Further down the street, houses were empty and silent. Knocks on doors and names called out by Geoff and Rick brought no response. Not even from Luke Napier's terrier, gone from the lavishly-built dog kennel by the front of the house with its restraining chain lying curled up in a tangle alongside a bowl bearing the word "Duffy" in scrawled paint.
Most of the doors were still locked against the night, even though by now, with all their looking and checking, it was almost six o'clock. Those that were not locked opened onto silent homes, some of them with TV sets playing – some showing old movies and sitcom re-runs but some (the ones tuned into stations showing live material, Geoff guessed) showing static, and radios mostly playing the same, though on one or two they heard Melanie's smoky voice announcing a new song. They felt like thieves, stealing into the sanctity of friends' houses, breathing their air, smelling the smells of their homes. When they spoke they spoke in whispers, eyes pulled wide open in an effort to strengthen their hearing that they might discern even the tiniest movement, the laziest turn-over in bed. But the beds, when they found them, were like everywhere and everything else: empty, the sheets on many of them bunched up as though wrapped around slumbering figures that had suddenly blinked out of existence, pillows indented beneath nonexistent heads.
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