Double blast, p.25
Double Blast, page 25
The cavalry didn’t show up in the next five minutes.
Worse, neither Bradley nor Baylor answered my calls. Wherever they were between Prattville and Pine Apple, they didn’t have cell service.
We stealthily made our way through the fog and down the hill to the graveyard gate, then across the street to reconvene under the cover of the willow trees again. I was busy catching my breath. Florida was busy letting the sledgehammer hold her up. Courtney was busy picking dirt out of the huge poms on her house slippers. And Eugenia was busy listening. “Do you hear that?” she asked. “I hear hammering.”
It was then that I remembered what was on the other side of the willow trees.
Florida and Courtney realized where we were too.
“I don’t hear anything,” Courtney said.
“Neither do I,” Florida said.
“It’s a pounding noise,” Eugenia said. “It sounds like it’s coming from inside the bank.”
“Maybe it’s just your blood pounding in your ears from the adrenalin, Eugenia,” I lamely suggested, while hustling everyone across Main Street toward Bea’s Diner. Away from the rhythmic thud that did indeed sound like hammering coming from inside the bank. Once we got to my car, then gathered behind it, it still took me, Florida, and Courtney a minute to get our terror out of the bank vault it had been hijacked to and back to the funeral home where it belonged.
“What now, Commander?”
“Eugenia, my name is Daaaaaavis.” I dragged it out the same way she did.
“What now, Daaaaaavis?”
“We get a step ahead of them,” I said. Then I laid out our only option short of calling in the Alabama National Guard. And if Bradley, Baylor, and the guns with them didn’t arrive soon, I’d be forced to call the Guard. “Does anyone know how to cut brake lines?”
Light from a streetlamp at the corner filtered through the mist and cast long shadows on the three stumped faces around mine.
Eugenia said, “My car is serviced by Mercedes-Benz in Montgomery.”
Courtney said, “I don’t even know what brake lines are. Do they connect the brakes to...something else?”
Florida said, “Are you thinking we cut the brakes to the fireworks truck so that when they leave the steep funeral home driveway, they plow through everything on Main Street?”
Scratch that.
I asked a more direct question. “Does anyone know how to disable a vehicle?” I knew how to destroy board diagnostic ports of brand new Bellissimo trucks, but that’s where my disable-a-vehicle knowledge started and stopped.
Eugenia said, “We could shoot out the tires.”
Wouldn’t work for two reasons: they’d hear gunshots ringing through the night, and they’d happily drive out of town on the rims.
Courtney said, “We could pour a cup of sugar in their gas tank.”
Wouldn’t work. Because it was a myth. Sugar fell straight to the bottom of the gas tank where it settled in for a nice long nap.
Florida said, “Swipe the spark plugs.”
We were all a little stunned. (In general. And specifically, that Florida delivered the line so matter-of-factly.)
“Keeping in mind it’s not a perfect solution,” she said. “If it’s a diesel truck, forget it. And if it has a manual transmission, there’s a chance they can start it without the spark plugs. In that case, though, it would misfire. Or the engine would surge. Or—”
“Aren’t spark plugs small?” I asked. “How would we find them in the dark?”
“If it’s a four-cylinder engine,” Florida said, “they’ll be lined up on top. Same thing if it’s six cylinders. Unless they’re on the side, but still easy to find. Now if it’s a V8—”
“Could spark plug failure cause my radio to jump from one radio station to another of its own accord?” Eugenia asked.
“V8 like the vegetable juice?” Courtney asked. “I always put a can of V8 in my vegetable beef soup. One of those baby cans.”
“What are the chances it’ll work?” I asked.
Florida answered me first. “Ninety-nine percent.” She answered Courtney second. “No.” She answered Eugenia last. “No.”
I took the time to ask a follow-up question out of curiosity. “How do you know all this?”
“Because I keep an Airstream Interstate Touring Coach running.”
We stood silently and let the fog swirl around us. “Ladies.” I shot a hand out in the circle. Florida landed her hand on mine. Eugenia slapped hers on Florida’s. Courtney followed with hers. “I’m going back to the funeral home.”
Eugenia said, “I’ll back you up.”
I shook my head no.
She didn’t argue.
Courtney said, “If you see Roy Howdy, tell him I said hey.”
Florida said, “I’ll take care of the spark plugs.”
When we reached the Flash Fireworks truck—the whole time I mentally tried on and peeled off different ways I might run the crew out of the house and to the inoperable truck, which would be after rescuing Roy Howdy and Whiskey, without ever finding the right fit—I held my hand out to Eugenia. She kept a blank look on her face, as if she had no idea what I wanted when she knew full well what I wanted. I shook my hand. With a huff, she unholstered her Desert Eagle pistol and plopped it in my waiting hand.
Courtney took a giant step back.
First, I clicked the gun to its safe position with a quick glare at Eugenia for not having the safety on in the first place and a quick thanks to the heavens above that she hadn’t shot her own foot off before killing us all. I released the magazine, dumping the contents into the pocket of my t-shirt, then replaced the empty magazine. I pulled back the slide and ejected the round in the chamber. I passed the empty gun back to Eugenia. I held the single round out to Florida. “Do not give it to her unless it’s a life-or-death situation.”
Florida nodded.
Eugenia huffed again while holstering her useless firearm.
With a loud thud.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she answered.
“Eugenia, do you have another gun on you?”
“No, it’s a smoke bomb grenade, thank you.”
“No. Thank you, Eugenia.” I relieved her of the grenade, tucking it away for safekeeping. I held my empty hand out again. “I need something to dig with.” She rummaged around in the deep cargo pocket of her left camo pant leg and produced—I kid you not—a three-inch-wide folding bayonet inside a black leather case.
Courtney said, “What is that?”
Florida said, “You are a strange woman, Eugenia.”
Eugenia said, “I hope you’re happy, Davis. Now I am completely unarmed. I could fall prey to a predator and have no way to defend myself.”
I hooked the leather case of the bayonet onto a belt loop. “When all this is over, we’re going to have a long talk, Eugenia.” My eyes left hers, then found Courtney’s, and finally Florida’s. “As soon as you have the spark plugs, let me know. Then go straight back to Bea’s Diner, all three of you. Lock yourselves in and wait on me.” The smoke grenade wasn’t sitting well in my pocket. And accidentally detonating it inside our small circle wouldn’t help a bit. I gingerly pulled it out to readjust it and my car keys came out too, falling at Eugenia’s feet. “Keep them,” I said. “If you don’t hear from me and I’m not back in half an hour, call the Alabama National Guard and get yourselves to my sister’s. You’ll find her, my niece, my grandmother, and my children in the bunk room under the kitchen.”
I was two steps into the foggy graveyard when I heard the pound of footfall behind me. “Davis, wait.” It was Florida. She held out the sledgehammer. “Just in case you need it.” We fell into a bear hug, the likes of which we hadn’t shared since the day she came running up the street waving her MIT acceptance letter.
After crawling the last ten feet to the window again, I found all the players right where I’d left them. Roy Howdy and Whiskey were still straining and squirming, with decidedly less enthusiasm, but they were alive. Flash was still on the sofa with a different beer in his left hand and the same gun in his right, as he continued to bark orders in the direction of the root cellar, but with decidedly more enthusiasm. It would seem, based on the tension covering his blood-red face like a blanket he was yelling through, that he wanted the job over and done with.
So did I.
I maneuvered myself and the bayonet into a prone digging position and started relocating earth away from the window. Still soft from the torrential rain days earlier, it went quickly, with the only mishap being when I hit a rock, and in the process of dislodging it, got a face full of dirt. Not wanting the blade to scratch glass, which would have sent me scrambling for cover when Flash’s head whipped around to locate the source of the noise, I flipped the bayonet and used the leather handle to move the last of the dirt away, where I discovered I wasn’t dealing with a single-hung or even a double-hung window. It was a hopper window. Like an awning window, but it opened out instead of in. And it turned out to be a single large pane below all the dirt. Large enough for even Roy Howdy to escape. If I could dig a deep enough trench, I could pull it all the way open and lay it down flat. I still couldn’t stand up, for fear that I’d send shadows bouncing off the basement wall, so flat on my belly it was. I batted around for the bayonet I’d dropped in the dark, crawled back two feet, and went to town. By the time I finished and rolled onto my back, my shoulders were on fire, I couldn’t feel my elbows at all, and I was wearing dirt mittens. I lay there panting, fog rolling around me, thankful I hadn’t unearthed any stray graveyard bones, and knew if I didn’t get moving, I might never move again. I was weary. I was heartsick. And I was scared. I was scared for my husband, my children, myself, Florida, Courtney, Eugenia, and everyone else in Pine Apple until my phone buzzed in my back pocket. The vibration was so unexpected, I thought I’d been tazed. I flipped over, in hopes of the earth keeping my heart in my chest, blew dirt out of my mouth, and went for my phone. The message was from Florida. Courtney and I are back at Bea’s. Eugenia’s right behind us. I think. She’s all upset about our failed mission to disable the truck. Davis, the fireworks truck is a diesel. No spark plugs. I couldn’t bust into the locked cab because windshield smashing isn’t exactly a quiet science, so I tried to go in through the back of the truck—not locked—to get into the cab and swipe the fuses, but the back of the truck is full. Of fireworks. I’ve never seen so many fireworks. There’s no daylight in the back of that truck and it’s going to take hours to unload. I hope you’re having better luck than me.
It was the kick in the pants I needed.
I had to move.
It had to end.
And it was over in seven minutes.
Smoke bomb grenade in hand, I crawled back to the window and tried to pull the hopper window open, but it wasn’t going anywhere. The window hadn’t been all the way open in decades.
Sledgehammer it was.
And Florida was right.
Glass shattering didn’t go unnoticed.
Flash’s head swung wildly looking for the source of the noise as I traded the sledgehammer for the smoke bomb grenade. I pulled the pin and lobbed it as far as I could through the open door. I dropped in the window and hit the glass-shard floor, watching Flash’s eyes dart from me to the grenade rolling across the floor. While he took the split second to decide which of us to shoot, I reached right and left pulling off face masks just as the smoke bomb detonated with the loudest blast I think I’d ever heard in my life. As the large room in the basement filled with smoke, extreme language, and blind rounds from his gun thudding into walls with one whizzing past my head, I sliced through canvas straps on gurneys with the bayonet. Roy Howdy said, “Davis?” I could barely hear him through the smoke bomb blast echoes roaring through my ears as I helped him sit up. “This is three times you’ve saved my life!” I hauled him off the gurney and shoved him toward the window. “Now I’m like your slave forever!”
I pointed to the window. “GET OUT!”
Roy Howdy shoved the gurney he’d been strapped to beneath the window, locked the wheels, climbed out the window, then dropped to his knees to help Whiskey out. Whiskey was mouthing off in his usual way, his long words spilling out one on top of the other, packing a little more punch than they usually did, but I wasn’t listening as I scrambled up the gurney and out the window behind him. I was an inch from freedom when a vice grip wrapped around my left ankle and yanked. I felt it all the way up my leg and into my hip. I kicked with my right foot and with everything I had, connected—I’m not sure who released the primal guttural grunt, or maybe we both did. My left slip-on Ked slipped off before I could escape.
By the time I made it out, the smoke from the grenade had filled the undertaker room and was following me in whisps. Roy Howdy and Whiskey each grabbed an arm of mine and were dragging me away when the distant wail of a fire engine reached my ears. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind it was my husband roaring into town. He was still several miles out, but in the country sound traveled. And occasionally disappeared. Like my hearing did just then when Eugenia Winters Stone, who’d freed her AK-47 from the trunk of my car, emptied an entire cartridge of thirty rounds into the getaway truck. Full of fireworks.
The sky literally exploded.
The three of us stopped at the first row of headstones, fell to our knees, then collapsed on the ground. We rolled on to our backs and watched the show.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was five thirty in the morning before the fire engine Baylor found, hotwired, and confiscated from a sleeping volunteer firehall four miles from Atwell Aviation, along with Pine Apple’s three volunteer firefighters and every other volunteer firefighter and all available equipment within a thirty-mile radius—they’d all heard the blast—finally extinguished all the little fires. Thanks to the fireworks. Eugenia had blown out the thin metal sidewall of the box truck and the ignited fireworks inside did the rest. There was nothing left of the truck but the smoldering cab. Pine Apple was left with scattered scorched-earth debris, especially on the west end of town, and the air was singed with sulfur, which was only slightly less offensive than the smell of the goats. But having only lost one garage way out on Collins Road, far from ground zero of all the pyrotechnics, all in all, we’d dodged a fire bullet. Which would have fulfilled Fantasy’s prophecy from what felt like weeks ago, but was really only days ago, when she said all I had left to do was burn my hometown to the ground.
It was five forty-five in the morning when the Talladega Federal prisoner transport bus rolled into town to cart home their three wayward residents. At the detonation of the smoke bomb grenade, one of them had slammed the root cellar door closed. With a little too much enthusiasm. Considering it was an ancient rustic wood door housed in a thick wooden frame built into the side of a hill that had swollen with the rain. The three prisoners were trapped. With the dead bodies. Talladega Federal’s wayward guard, Marcus Flash, on the other hand, was on the run. He’d escaped the smoky basement by crawling up the stairwell, leaving a wide trail of candle wax in his wake after tipping over then falling in the contents of an eighty-quart stainless steel stockpot full of the hot stuff. We could see the outline of his feet cast in deep wax near the stove, and past those, where he’d landed face first in hot wax trying to outrun it.
After I found my shoe in the undertaker room, Roy Howdy and I, not on one of the little-fires-everywhere crews, followed the trail of hardened wax by flashlight. Up the stairs, then out the front door, down the driveway, and all the way to the empty lot below the hill at the intersection of Wright and Oak Streets. Where the haphazardly parked eighteen-wheeler from the Bellissimo wasn’t.
“Roy Howdy?” I was all the same color—head to toe—a hue that was equal parts dirt and soot. “Did you leave the keys in the eighteen-wheeler?”
“Maybe.”
That was a yes. “Why?”
“I figured you’d get mad if I lost them.”
“You lost the whole truck. And bonus, you let a—” I didn’t think it was the time or place to break the Old Man Carter news to Roy Howdy by calling Flash a murderer, so I went with “—deranged madman escape.”
After a thoughtful moment passed, which didn’t happen often with Roy Howdy, he said, “When is it your daddy’s going to be back?”
“Tuesday,” I said. “I think.” I never read the rest of his text message, and my phone was long gone. Probably somewhere in the graveyard. Or trucking down the road in an eighteen-wheeler with Marcus Flash, who I immediately radioed in a BOLO for so the manhunt could get underway. He had a head start, but it wasn’t easy to take Alabama backroads or hide from state troopers on the highways in a wanted big rig. Especially if you’d just bathed in eighty quarts of 130-degree wax and driving big rigs wasn’t your day job. So it wouldn’t be long.
