When the Light Goes Out Page 10

  “Look, the conversation is over, you two need to head back in that direction,” he pointed in the direction of Frenchtown, the direction of Scott’s house. The complete opposite direction of Dana.

  “Look, we need help on this. You’d just let a ten year old sit at home, scared and alone during this?” Ami said.

  “Have you contacted 9-1-1 to see if they can send someone out there?”

  “I did.” Ami said.

  “And what did they say?” his mustache stirred.

  “They said they’d try to send someone out there. Can you at least call someone on your radio and see if anyone’s been out there?”

  “I am here to make sure that no one goes in the direction of East Missoula. If you called someone about your sister, our guys got her.”

  “But how do you know?” Ami said.

  “Because we do our jobs. People like you give us job security.”

  “But you don’t know for sure if they picked my sister up. And you won’t check for us?”

  “The only thing I’m required to know is what I am ordered. And my orders are to stop people from being stupid. You aren’t going that way.”

  “Fine, I’m going through now,” Ami said to him, and began to climb back into the car, “You want to stop me, shoot me.”

  “I’ll do better, I will pepper spray you, and put you the back of the car until this whole thing is over.”

  “So although there could be a major gas leak that you claim to be protecting us from, you’d gas us yourself,” Ami said.

  “You’d be in pain, but you’d be alive. That’s my only job here. Keep you alive.”

  Ami decided she was through talking. She motioned for Marc to get in the car.

  “Sawhorses do not scare me,” she said, clutching the stick shift, “I’ve already busted through a roadblock today, what’s one more?”

  Ami started the car and began to edge their way through two sawhorses. Officer Mitchell shouted something unintelligible at them and reached for his belt. He ran at them and she swerved to miss him. As they passed him, a small spray emitted from the end of a cylindrical can and coated the vinyl soft top.

  Although the pepper spray soaked the roof, the burn still got to Marc. He frantically rolled down his window after his eyes and nostrils began to sting.

  When it felt like they were a safe distance from Officer Mitchell, Ami pulled the car over to the side of the road and began to unlatch the pepper soaked roof panels. She pushed them out on the street and peeled away.

  Marc was coughing heavily and his nose was running like a faucet. But he said to her, “Keep going.”

  The tankers were still cackling.

  * * *

  They drove down Broadway for a half a mile until they felt a safe distance from being spotted.

  They saw the familiar glow of the red and blues at the intersection of Broadway and Russell Street.

  “So we’re screwed, huh?” Marc said, “We’re trying to do the right thing and the world is conspiring against us?”

  Ami pulled over shut the car lights off. “Maybe we’ll be OK. I’ll pull a U-turn here. We may have to backtrack and go north, but if we can get up to that one road…shit. I don’t remember the name of it. The one that goes along the north side of the train tracks. I’d be very surprised anyone would be back there. That road is a shithole. But it should get us downtown, and if we can get downtown, we’ll almost be there.”

  * * *

  The name of the road Ami couldn’t remember was Old Grant Creek Road, which turned into Raser Drive, then Rodgers Street. It was a poorly maintained street that paralleled the north side of the train tracks. It was an asphalt quilt; made up of several random patches of blacktop, varying in shade depending on the age of the repair. Every spring, the permafrost would thaw and new potholes would appear. There were also multiple dips and harsh bumps caused by old rail tracks that intersected the street once upon a time. Sidewalks were non-existent; only gravel patches with even more holes and dips. There were streetlights only sporadically dotted along the distance. Ami turned off the headlights for extra stealthiness, leaving only the orange parking lights on.

  On the upside, Ami was correct that it would be a dead quiet street. Even when there wasn’t a city-wide evacuation, for obvious reasons, it was not a well-traveled road. For the benefit of traveling through the city undetected, it was perfect in that capacity.

  To the east, they had a clear view of Hellgate Canyon. The two mountains, Mount Jumbo and Mount Sentinel, were now dark shadows framing a glowing spotlight reaching into the sky; it was the light of the emergency crews hard at work. It was a foreboding sight and they were heading right for it.

  “We’re forging to Mordor,” Ami said.

  Marc laughed, “Which one of us is Frodo?”

  “There’s no way I’m Sam,” Ami said, “You are totally my sidekick, Marc.”

  Marc smiled, “Okay, I’m fine with that.”

  They continued bouncing down the tattered street. The dim yellow glow of the parking lights only spat out a yard of street visibility and Ami could not swerve from the potholes that jumped out at the Smart Car.

  “Do you think the cops called back?” Marc said.

  “Probably,” Ami squeezed the steering wheel, “But my mom wouldn’t have stood to have me wait for them.”

  “Why not? She’d rather risk both of her daughters?”

  “It’s that complicated mother/daughter relationship thing you always hear about.”

  “It’s usually not send-your-daughter-to-her-doom complicated.”

  “There’s nothing usual about today,” Ami said.

  “Fuck, no,” Marc said, “My dad wasn’t really racing to pick me up, so I guess both of our parents want us dead.”

  Ami laughed, “Yeah, and your dad was even close to town! Like he totally could have come and got you.”

  “I guarantee right now that he is a full six beers in and will sleep in his truck in the parking lot of Fred’s tonight. He’s done that before. On a Thursday. Not like today when there’s some catastrophe and you kind of understand his despair. Just on a Thursday.”

  “Why do you still live with him?” Ami reached over and grabbed his hand, “Can’t you live with your mom? Get out of this stinkhole town?”

  Marc wanted to tell Ami the truth. He wanted to tell her she was the reason. She was the only reason. She’d always been the reason. But those words weren’t coming out.

  “He’s not entirely bad,” Marc said, “We’ve been trying to stay out of each other’s way lately and I think we’re really making some progress.”

  “I’m sorry, it sounds terrible.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve gone through.”

  They held their hands tight together and continued down the road.

  * * *

  It was like hitting a brick wall; their ride had been eerily silent of outsiders and as they re-entered the land of stick-built homes, they heard hooting, hollering, and cat calling. Ami slowly drove down the narrow street and noticed a crowd of people at the next intersection. She stopped and turned off the Smart Car’s lights. The street was lined with cars parked parallel on both sides and there was no place to pull off.

  At the intersection, they could see that within that crowd was a single police officer, who had been making unsuccessful attempts to cool down the situation. There were twenty to thirty men, and only two women. The males in the crowd were evenly split by a generation gap. One half comprised of middle-aged, mustached men that lived in the shallow end of the gene pool. The other half were younger men; post–hip-hop dudes decked out in crooked ball caps and large baggy clothes. The trash bag vests were covered in elaborate tattoo designs. The one thing bridging the age gap in the crowd was their Fu-Manchus.

  The two women were almost difficult to pick out from the crowd. One was a lady in her forties, long straight black hair and a sunburn. Another was a younger girl, probably seventeen, stringy b
londe hair on top, drooping over sides that were clean shaven.

  Marc and Ami were stuck. She’d only be able to put the car in reverse to avoid driving into the crowd (though the thought to do so was appealing at this point in her journey). Ami attempted to put the car in reverse, but the engine was no longer running. She looked to start the car again.

  The officer was speaking loudly into the walkie on his shoulder; his other hand glued to his holster. He kept a constant distance of ten feet from the crowd, pausing every minute to listen to what his shoulder had to tell him.

  Ami saw a rock fly over the crowd and pelt the officer in his left thigh. Then she saw the officer draw his gun.

  The crowd swelled backwards.

  For a moment, Ami thought that the officer would be able to clear the crowd; they’d just have to wait a few minutes.

  The only intelligible words that Ami could decipher was, “Why don’t you just go ahead and shoot us, you fucking bitch?”

  The officer instead pulled the small canister from his belt and aimed it at the crowd. The streetlights shone through the mace spray sailing towards the mob. They disbursed like rats evading the light.

  The officer made no attempt to run after them. He instead climbed back into his car and popped on the red-and-blues. One other thing he didn’t do was control which direction the rodents scattered. Ami and Marc began to see shadows running towards them.

  Then a blast of light burned through them. It was a giant truck, pushing its way out of its cockeyed parallel parking job, slamming into the corner of the car’s trunk in front of it. The lights made their way closer to them.

  “Oh shit,” Marc said, “Back it up!”

  But Ami couldn’t. The entire car wouldn’t start up again. She pushed the start button repeatedly, but nothing happened. She clicked the key fob frantically enough to feel its tensile strength between her fingers.

  “What in the fuck is up with this piece of fucking garbage?” she yelled, “What am I not doing right here? What is this glowing green key icon on the dash?”

  The truck approached them now and began to sit on its horn. A mulleted shadow popped out of the window and yelled, “Move, faggots!”

  Marc yelled out, “We can’t! The car won’t start!”

  “Fuck you!” yelled the voice behind the lights. The truck backed up, then lunged forward at them.

  The grill bar of the giant truck pressed into the hood of the Smart Car and Ami and Marc felt the car slide backwards. The roar of the truck engine vibrated hard against their ear drums.

  “What the fuck are we going to do?” Marc said.

  As the Smart Car was pushed backwards, it skidded across the sides of parked cars on both sides of the narrow road. Ami held the brakes, but it didn’t matter, the truck was powerful enough to slide the Smart Car along the road.

  “We have to get out of here,” Ami said.

  She stood up on the seat and stuck herself through the T-tops. Marc saw her spring off the car door and jump into the first open truck bed. He heard her yell to him.

  With that, he stood up and jumped from the car door to the first open space he saw. The problem was that the Smart Car followed him, tipping over to its side. It made his jump go askew and he fell into the curb. He watched the truck fly by as it cleared the wrecked car. Marc then ducked as he saw a beer bottle flying at him.

  They hugged each other tightly, looked at the crumpled Smart Car and rested their heads together.

  Then more shadows came running their way. Marc pulled Ami down behind a rusted Ford F150 sitting in the driveway of a single-wide trailer. Amber lights glowed from the front windows.

  The sound of sneakers slamming on gravel grew closer.

  Ami peeked around the corner of the Ford’s grill. A shadow, wearing a baggy thigh-length jacket, came running at her. The shadow didn’t stop and it quickly became apparent that the shape did not see them in its way. Timberland boots stepped on Ami’s leg; as the waffle-print gouging the tender inside of her thighs, the pain took the breath from her. Then he tripped over Marc’s knees and fell to the ground.

  “What the fuck?!” the man said, gasping for air and his face soaked with tears. He rolled off of them and struggled to his feet.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Marc said, “We didn’t mean to be here.”

  The solid homunculus wrapped in the baggy jacket pointed to the run-down trailer. Out of the coughs and grunts, they only understood one word coming out of the injured man: “Help.”

  They picked him up from beneath his armpits and pulled him inside the ratty trailer. The door of the trailer opened directly into the kitchen unit. The man rushed to the sink and forced open the cold water faucet. His entire head was under the flow a half second later; his shoulders slumped as an exhausted sigh of relief came from the sink.

  Ami pictured how it would have happened in a cartoon, a steam cloud bellowing from his head, accompanied by the sizzling sound of a doused fire.

  After a few minutes of holding his head under the stream, he exited the kitchen and walked into a narrow hallway.

  Marc and Ami stood in the wood-paneled kitchen. A survey of the scene created no real surprises for either of them. The stove was filthy; the backsplash darkened with smoke stains. An aquarium tank sat on a card table, housing a parched iguana.

  The wood paneling of the kitchen continued through the living room, which was furnished with a hodge-podge of very used furniture. In some circles, it might have been considered hip in an ironic sense for its white trash authenticity.

  As the majority of the furniture was dilapidated, one item looked as out of place as Marc and Ami. It was a sixty inch flat screen TV on a wooden credenza. An X-Box controller sat on the floor.

  The man suddenly appeared from the hallway again, vigorously drying his head with a towel.

  “Holy shit, thank God you guys were there, I’d have broke my fuckin’ head on all kinds of shit tryin’ to find my front door.”

  He sat down on a very used, leg-less couch that was covered in brown and yellow flower patterns. When he sat, he sank into a severely worn-out cushion like a puzzle piece.

  A power bill, marked Urgent, sat on the coffee table addressed to a recipient named Jeremy. But he introduced himself to them as “Juice”. He sat with his head rested on the back of the couch, rubbing his blond goatee. Then he reached forward to the coffee table and pushed aside a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine to pick up a tin can. He pulled out what looked to be a thick permanent marker. He placed one end in his mouth and clicked a small button on the side of it. A stream of sweet vapor exited him slowly. He held it out to Marc and Ami.

  Marc declined. Ami recognized the smell immediately as pot and gave it serious consideration, but hesitated. Maybe she could ask for a nug or two to save for later. Years of exposure to D.A.R.E. meant nothing on a day like this; she could imagine how wonderful it would be to be stoned on the couch watching Labyrinth when this whole thing was over.

  "Pussies," Juice smiled, "Some fucking night, huh?"

  “Yeah,” Marc said.

  “So,” Juice said, propping his feet up on the coffee table. His shoes were definitely the most expensive part of his outfit. Except perhaps for the Oakley sunglasses sitting on the kitchen table.

  “So,” Marc said, “You’re doing okay?”

  “Face is burning like it has the clap, but otherwise, yeah, doin’ okay.”

  “Good deal,” Marc said, “We’re going to head on down the highway, then.”

  “You talk like a fag, dude,” Juice said.

  Marc was silent.

  “I’m just playin’,” Juice said, “Dude, fuckin’ join me. Sit down.”

  “We would love to, trust us, but we have to be on our way.”

  “Bullshit. Sit down, smoke some of this shit. I got some glass, too.”

  “Uh, glass? Like, glass?” Marc pointed to the window.

  “Glass, like fuckin’ crystal, bro.”

  “Ohuh?” Marc said.


  “Okay, you know-nothing bitch. Crank, you fuckin’ noob.”

  “Ohhh. Noooo, no. That’s fine. I…We really have to get moving. We have to pick up her sister.”

  Juice removed a blackened glass tube from the tin can and lit it up like a camp stove. He inhaled and then blew out the smoke like a train whistle.

  “Nah, really, you guys just got here. Have a beer or something. I have a case of Bud Light in the fridge.”

  “No, we need to leave,” Ami said, “Did you see what just happened to us?”

  “A lot of shit just happened,” Juice giggled, “Crazy shit, dawg. Fuckin’ cops. What part happened to you?”

  “Did you happen to see a big fucking U.F.O. truck run into a car?”

  “Not really, my face was fucking burning,” Juice said, “But I could hear Donny Dumptruck’s monster doing something cool as fuck. Did he run into you guys?”

  “Yes, he fucking ran into us,” Ami said.

  “Donny Fucking Dumptruck. He done you one there. He’s such a fucking badass.”

  “Maybe Donny Dumptruck can go fuck himself,” Ami said, “Then go home and let his mother out of her cage.”

  Juice was unfazed and pointed to the fornicating stick figures on Ami’s chest, “That’s a sweet shirt.”

  “Thanks, my mom got it for me,” Ami said.

  “Wow, your mom is fucked up. Have her give me a call.”

  “Yes. I definitely will.”

  Juice turned to Marc, “You like Call of Duty?”

  “The game? Not really my thing.”

  “Well, let’s hook that shit up, ninja. Gotta make it your thing. I warn you. I’m the shit. I will blow your fuckin’ head off, cuz.”

  Marc began to feel like every cell in his body was asking for the check. The tight sensation moved up his throat until he nearly gagged.

  Marc looked at his bare wrist, “Hey, look at the time, we’re sort of in a hurry to pick her sister up. She’s all alone right now and there’s this whole thing about a tanker that might crash and kill us all.”

  “Don’t worry about that shit, man.”

  “You have info we don’t?” Ami asked.

  “I’m tellin’ ya. Your sister’s gonna be fine. This whole fuckin’ thing is just some secret bullshit by old King Obama Hussein to sabotage our country. You know, now that we have a proper white man in charge, he’s gotta think of ways to make the man look bad.”