When the Light Goes Out Read online

  Rat’s Nest was looking at Ami now. She stood silent, avoiding eye contact.

  “How old are you?” he asked her.

  Ami stayed mute. She looked up from the floor and stared at Marc.

  “Hey, so why are you guys really here?” Marc asked, beginning to feel the beads of sweat ticking his underarms.

  “We’re not kidding, we run the store,” Balloon Head said.

  “I don’t really know if I believe you,” Marc said.

  “You got a name, sweetie?” Rat’s Nest would not stop looking at her.

  “We have to leave,” Marc interrupted, “Her sister’s waiting for us at home. We only planned to stop here for a minute ‘cause we were in a car accident.”

  “Oh dear,” Balloon Head said, “That’s a shame. I hope everyone was okay.”

  “Pretty shaken up,” Marc said, “I thought I crapped my pants.”

  Rat’s Nest Man broke his focus from Ami and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. He continued to do so, bending over with amusement. It passed the point of reasonable fun and crossed firmly into the land of discomfort.

  Balloon Head was the straight man, “I thought something smelled like shit.”

  “No, I didn’t actually—” Marc said.

  “Well, enough fun, I’m bored,” Balloon said, poking the Rat’s Nest Man, “Should we just go ahead and do this?”

  “Naw, I like this part. How about just a little longer?”

  “Um, like I said, we’ll just be heading out,” Marc said.

  “We should probably take ‘em to Del’s,” Balloon said.

  “I ain’t sure we got enough gas to make it to Plains,” Rat’s Nest said, “Let’s just go home. We got everything we need there for this.”

  “But the tankers…” Balloon rubbed his chin.

  “Why do you think we got the gas masks?” Rat’s Nest barked back.

  Marc tried to move backwards, “I said we’re—”

  It happened before Marc could even put another thought together. He was thrown into the rows of lagers and ales. His can of beer flew in the air and his head tagged the edge of an aluminum rack. It hurt.

  Ami was seized by the man with the ham head. She shrieked and punched at him. It was a quick flash before Ami was on her stomach, eyes-to-tile, arms bent backwards and a zip-tie clasped around her wrists. She impotently kicked backwards, but only met with the back of her thighs.

  Marc was now a mirror image of her; face to the ground and zip-tied. A greasy hand held the back of his head down, and forced it to the left side. Marc’s gum had flown out of his mouth in the attack and now his temple was pressed into it.

  “These’ll do nicely,” the Balloon said.

  Ami felt her heart pounding against the linoleum; the beats radiating out through her chest and pulsating out of her rib cage.

  “This one has a good set of ears,” the deep voice came from behind Marc, “Good to grab on to.”

  A twinge of pain arrived in the back of Marc’s neck; it was the cold point of a knife.

  Balloon Head nodded at Ami, “I’m sure this one’ll taste like sweet honey dew melon.”

  A warm, wet feeling crept up the back of her neck. The foul smell got worse and she realized she was being licked by the man holding her. She assumed it was a man, but would not have been surprised if it had been a cerebus.

  “Yep, sweet honey dew.”

  She had no leverage and felt completely weak; still feeling as if it were a possibility that her dad would step in and save them.

  “Bet this one tastes like sweet potatoes,” Rat’s Nest said.

  Marc spoke now, “Fuck you.” It was all he had.

  Rat’s Nest spoke into Marc’s ear; his moist, warm breath ticking the lobe.

  “I’m afraid you got that wrong. We gonna fuck you, cupcake.”

  Ami saw the blueprint of what was to occur. They would be taken back to the decrepit rock that these fucks crawled out of. A rock that was stowed away and hidden in the middle of a quaint college town. It would be a run-down house up in the Northside; the kind you cross the street to avoid. A house that you’d need to clean up just to condemn. A house that undoubtedly featured a basement of horrors.

  The fat man dug his fingernails into Ami’s wrists; she writhed with pain. His other hand was now moving between her legs.

  “Stop!” Marc yelled. Adrenaline soared and he kicked backwards; his heels still could not hit their mark.

  Tears were forming on Ami’s face. She jumped when the first of her captor’s fingers approached the seam of her jeans in the zone most vulnerable to her.

  No fucking way. Not these fucking guys. Not today.

  Something ignited inside of her. There was fire. She’d have beaten every one of those little shits from Lord of the Flies into pulp.

  Ami tensed her thighs rock-hard over his wrist and rolled onto her right side. It bent her attacker’s wrist; he yelped and let go of her. Before his hand could reach her wrist again, Ami kicked her foot into the side of his knee.

  Balloon Head buckled to the ground and screamed at her. Ami swung her legs around to sit up. She leapt to her feet; arms still tied behind her back. The solid wooden heel of her flat came down on his ratty, second-hand shoes. His shoe offered him no protection; with only a thin piece of mesh canvas covering his toes, Ami felt the joint of his big toe collapse under her foot. His voice shot up to a squeal, his mouth opening to reveal teeth maintained as well as his partners.

  The man fell to his knees. Ami swung around and side-kicked her other flat into the air, connecting with his bulbous nose. It was a solid connection; bone crunched below her hard sole. He fell face down onto the tile.

  A split-second later, her arm felt warm with pain. Rat’s Nest had drawn the knife away from Marc’s neck and skimmed her upper arm.

  Before a second stab with the knife could come, a thin spray of fluid began to soak the Rat’s Nest man. It was coming from the Picnic Items aisle directly behind them. Scott stepped out holding out a rectangular white bottle; there were staccato sprays of clear liquid shooting from the red cap.

  The thin man stepped off of Marc and moved towards Scott, who was now struggling with a butane lighter package. He ripped the cellophane apart from the cardboard and threw it on the ground. He charged the Rat’s Nest man, furiously clicking the red and black lighter.

  The tiny spark from the igniter hit the butane. A small flame appeared from the end of the barrel and the Rat’s Nest Man went up in thin flames. Screams came from his flaming body; he dropped and rolled. Now both of their assailants were on the ground.

  Scott pushed a stack of soda packs on top of the fat man. A few cans sprung leaks in the fall, orange soda and root beer sprayed in all directions. He picked up the knife and sliced through the zip-ties binding Ami and Marc.

  They sprinted past the groceries towards the front of the store. They sprinted past the popsicles, the Fruit Loops, the Twinkies, and Ami could now see the meaningless, sensational headlines of The Sun and Us Weekly on the end-caps of the checkout lines.

  While running past the cereal, time slowed down and Ami became intensely focused on quickly quality-testing the options that had been percolating before the attack and putting them under the new conditions. Conditions that now included being chased by men that would rape and murder them—and by the sounds of it, not in that order.

  Plan A: Go to Reserve Street and see if any of those wrecked cars would start. Follow up by making a quick run through the parking lot in order to do the same.

  Results of Plan A: No time anymore. What’s next?

  Plan B: Sprint like hellfire towards the Rattlesnake.

  Results of Plan B: Not bad, but with their attackers possessing a truck, they might be easily chased down.

  Plan C: The raft?

  Results of Plan C: The river is going in the wrong direction, but the truck can’t follow. They forfeit Dana for the moment, but save themselves. If they could get to the river fast enough, they may not even
be seen.

  This internal testing spanned two seconds, the length of the cereal aisle. Inside of Ami’s head, the whole thing was ordered and rational. When she blurted Plan C out to her friends, it came out awkwardly:

  “Clark Fork—raft.”

  Marc was the only one that understood the short-form direction. He pointed at Scott to grab the nylon rope threaded through the raft.

  The animal sounds of the hillbillies bellowed from the back of the store. One recovering from the blow to his head, his smashed toe, and an attack by half a dozen twelve-packs. The other was assuredly rolling around in the soda to douse the flames.

  Ami knew what was needed; enough time to run a hundred yards without being spotted. Just enough to get past the parking lot. If they hauled ass, it couldn’t take but fifteen seconds—maybe twenty if they were carrying the raft. If they could round the corner of the strip mall, they’d be out of sight from the grocery store’s entry. That would buy them even more time unseen to cross Mullan Road. On the other side of Mullan, a downward slope of about ten feet would add another layer of obscurity. Then another thirty yards, they’d be on the river.

  It depended on this first twenty seconds.

  They burst out of the store through the smashed doors. The familiar Dodge truck, now confirmed as dark blue, was lodged against a giant metal freezer advertising ice for a dollar ninety-nine. It hadn’t been there when they entered the Albertson’s; these fucks must have spotted them going in. A tangled mix of twine, bungees and canvas straps puffed out of the truck bed.

  Marc let go of the raft and pulled on the door handle, “Shit, it’s locked. Keep going!”

  They narrowed in on the straight-line path to Mullan Road. They skipped over the rows of parking blocks and pushed random carts out of the way, each obstacle eating up priceless time. Dodging abandoned cars added more precious milliseconds to their escape.

  Ami’s flat caught the edge of a crack in the blacktop and she tripped onto her knee. She felt the Fuck! climb into her throat, ready to explode in the air with attention-grabbing volume and she trapped it with her tongue.

  Mullan Road appeared as they made it around the corner of the strip mall.

  There was still no indication they were spotted.

  But as they hit Mullan, wails echoed from parking lot. The angry cries were followed by the roar of Dodge’s engine. There was little doubt these hunters would give up their prey so easily. Especially after their prey just set one of them on fire.

  Each inch of Mullan Road seemed like a mile. Their legs felt as if they were stuck in quicksand. When they reached the other side, they flung the raft down the embankment and hopped over the guard rail. Scott’s shoes slipped on the loose gravel; he landed on his tailbone and slid down the rest of the ridge, never taking his eyes off the safety rail above.

  They planted the raft into the water as softly as they could. They squeezed themselves into the center and pushed themselves out onto the flowing river. From far above, they heard tire squeals and deep engine revs.

  And then the truck busted over the guard rail, slamming down the steep slope after them. It nearly rolled at impact, but up righted itself as it drove straight towards the river.

  “Oh, shit!” Marc yelled, “They’re coming after us!”

  The raft was only about one hundred yards ahead of the Dodge. The truck bounced around on the rocky shore and then swerved further into the river. Then suddenly the front half of the truck disappeared under the water.

  Scott blurted out, “Ha! Where did they think they were going?”

  The truck doors popped open, but the driver’s side was now too far underwater to open with ease. The raft began to pass beneath the Reserve Street Bridge and the distance between them and their attackers widened.

  The group swung their hands through the water with fury. The river would bend just slightly south in about fifty feet. Once they passed the bend, they’d be obscured, and free to come ashore further down the river.

  “God damn it,” Ami yelled, “Where’s my fucking phone?”

  The bend came.

  Chapter X

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Marc whispered into Ami’s ear.

  Ami had pulled her aunt’s bottle of Xanax out of her pocket and was holding one pill.

  “Without question,” Ami whispered back, “It doesn’t look like they followed us.”

  Scott dog-paddled at the front of the raft. He wasn’t listening to the quiet conversation going on in the back half of the boat.

  “Won’t you get in trouble?” Marc said.

  “I don’t give shit-one about my mom right now. I’m fucking freaking out. I need this.”

  She had completely forgotten about Donna. No wonder her aunt needed to be prescribed Xanax; her family members didn’t even remember she existed in a life-threatening emergency.

  “Don’t take it,” Marc said, “I’ve had it before. You don’t need to pass out right now.”

  “Do you want to split it?” she asked.

  Yeah, he wanted to split it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” Ami said, “I can’t go on without trying this. Seriously.”

  She broke the pill at the seam and handed the other half to Marc.

  “Ami, I mean it,” he said, giving it back to her, “This is not a good idea, we need to stay sharp right now.”

  “I will be sharper if I’m relaxed.”

  Marc whispered closer to her, “If Scott told you not to take the pill, you wouldn’t.”

  Ami crinkled her face at him and popped the half-pill onto her tongue.

  “Why don’t you tell on me, then?” she said and scooped up a handful of water into her mouth. Then she said, “Ugh, I don’t even want to know what shit lives in this water.”

  “Great,” Marc said, “That was not wise, Ami.”

  “I’ll be fine, I promise,” she said, “It can’t be that different from the Oxy I tried once. I played Wii-Fit while I was on that. I was fine then and I’ll be fine now.”

  “Ami, this isn’t a video game,” Marc said.

  The sun set behind Blue Mountain. This western hill was now shadowed, making its namesake apparent. On the eastern end of the valley, Mount Jumbo was awash in the remainder of the sun’s last evening glow. On the face of the mountain, the giant patch of painted white rocks shaped like an “L” shone like a beacon.

  Ami stared at the “L”. Her house in the Rattlesnake was sitting at the foot of that mountain. It teased her with its misleading closeness. Still a good five miles away, but she felt like she could reach out and grab it.

  I just want to get over there. How hard is it? I can see clearly where I need to go and now there’s this long stretch of treacherous land between us.

  Out east, Ami could hear the black tankers cackling at her. And the cackling was getting farther away as their raft drifted west on the Clark Fork River. They were now floating about a quarter of a mile south of Mullan Road, where large swaths of farmland still await being taken over by sprawl.

  The day had started unseasonably hot, but as dusk arrived, a wave of cool washed over the valley. The water they floated on was still painfully cold in April. The raft gently bobbed and the only sound to be heard was the swooshing of their aquatic highway.

  The near silence amplified the ringing in Ami’s ears; the sound enveloped her head and squeezed it like a vice. It was like the residual sounds of today’s chaos were electrocuting her.

  Trees and fields danced past them. The solitude gave Ami a greater feeling of security that the sick bastards behind them had given up.

  Ami rolled her neck around to stretch her knotted muscles. Her body was warming up and she was becoming aware of every inch of her body. Each cell was becoming warm and fuzzy. The pill was kicking in.

  Ami remembered one of her dad’s favorite rock classics:

  Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.

  She looked at Scott and saw his broad back heavin
g as he paddled his arms through the water. With the relaxant and the near-death experience, the sight of his swirling shoulders clobbered her unexpectedly with an urgent desire to touch him.

  But there was also resentment. There was probably always going to be some of that. Ami knew it wasn’t right, but she’d never forgive him for the part he indirectly played in her father’s accident. If he hadn’t broken up with her in the winter, she wouldn’t have gotten drunk and then decided to take those extra drinks with her, and then she wouldn’t have been arrested. And then her dad wouldn’t have needed to come get her.

  But yet, she still desired him.

  Fuck attraction. Fuck biology. But fuck loneliness too.

  But then she looked at Marc. He was staring at the trees with his nose pointed forward as if he would be able to smell their attackers hiding in the brush. It was fortunate that he was as skinny as he was; they were jammed hip-to-hip in the back of the raft and if he had been as big as Scott, they would not have all fit.

  Ami remembered how Marc had tried to be so brave during the attack; it was mostly ineffectual, but she realized it was probably the first time he’d faced physical danger. He seemed changed, just like she was feeling changed. Ami studied him more; his eyes now looked deeper and darker than she had ever noticed. They were more striking than in art class. Ami was so used to his face having the nervous, gangly smile plastered on it, that it was a stark contrast to see him so intensely serious.

  Ami closed her eyes and rolled her neck around again, feeling gentle waves of an itchy softness radiate up the base of her skull. She opened her eyes and again looked at Marc. He had now broken his focus from the banks of the river and was serenely looking at her. It wasn’t jarring or an uncomfortable look to her. It was as if he had taken a short break from his focus on the trees to pay her a moment’s admiration. But just after her eyes met his, he looked away embarrassed.

  It was an exchange that rewrote the entire narrative of their history in her mind. All the cute back-and-forth they shared in art class. The way he’d cover for her if she was late. The way he always said her lazily-put-together art projects were “cool as hell”.