Beyond the flashback, p.21
Beyond the Flashback, page 21
Which could only have been the diner being breached as the sun continued to sink and twilight fell; as our hearts pounded in our chests like pistons, like drums, and I ran back up the steps to close the door.
***
9
Basic White Teenage Boy
I took the Talon from around my neck and dropped it in the dust. “Hurry up,” I said. “Cover it with something, anything. Those bags of flour.”
I started dragging the sacks from the shelves and letting them fall to the floor—as Jesse and Quint lifted the 50-pound bags together and threw them over the Talon, which cut off our light.
“Whatever happened to just letting it repel the bastards?” asked Quint, and grunted. “I mean, at this point, it’s pretty much just a liability, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure.” I took off my pack and started digging for my lighter. “You gonna be the one to wear it? It’s like you said: I don’t even want to be close to those things.”
“We should ditch it, then,” said Quint. “That is, if we ever get out of this mess.”
“No,” I snapped, remembering the voice, and the way it had repelled the dinosaur on the Yakima River. “It—it’s still our best bet if we get caught in the open. And it—it means something. I tell you. It’s important.”
“Yeah,” said Quint. “Important at getting us killed.”
I flicked on my lighter, having found it amongst the tools in the small pouch of my pack, even as pots and pans reigned down—clattering and clanging—somewhere above.
“It’s in the kitchen,” said Jesse. “Machine, I mean. And Demon too, I bet. Oh, shit—Miles. What are we going to do?”
I looked around the basement: at the industrial-sized cans of tomato sauce and 5-gallon buckets of dish soap; at the 50-pound bags of corn starch, the cans and cans of coffee beans. “Who am I to know,” I said—and extinguished the lighter. It was getting hot. “I’m just your basic white teenage boy.” I looked at Quint; or at least where I thought he was. “Why don’t you ask ‘Dumb like a Fox?’”
Jesse didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, Dumb like a Fox, what do ya got?”
But Quint didn’t say anything—only remained silent as the animal or animals above brushed against the basement door, snorting and sniffing and snarling.
“Quint?”
Which is when we heard it: a drizzling and a spattering, like a thin stream of water. A dribbling and a dripping—percolating in the dust. “I’m pissing, if you don’t mind,” he said at last—and added: “Back here, in a sort of cubby.”
“Well, hurry up,” I snapped. “We’ve got to figure a way out of this cluster—”
“Yo, Miles,” he said. “Bring your lighter over here.” I heard a rustling and a swishing, like small boxes being moved around. “Just—just follow my voice.”
I gripped the lighter and followed his voice ... to where he was standing in the dark before a high set of shelves; shelves packed with a hundred different types of boxes and tubes—all of them colorful, all of them garish.
To be honest, it took me a minute to realize what I was looking at. “I don’t ... I mean ... Are those—?”
He grabbed a clear package of what appeared almost to be shotgun shells and held them out between us. “And no; you ain’t imagining things.” He gave the package a little heft. “How many sticks of dynamite in this?”
“None,” I said, as Jesse joined us, and moved the lighter farther away. “That’s—that’s an urban legend. Those are just flash powder; black powder. They’re not quarter sticks of dynamite.”
Quint studied the cherry bombs, the M-80s. “Yeah, but—whatever. They’ll make a big boom, won’t they?”
I looked at all the boxes and tubes and other packages: shelf after shelf after shelf of them, like our own private fireworks stand. Our own little—or not so little—artillery depot.
“Oh, yeah,” I said—and held out my free hand, palm up.
At which they slapped it; first Quint—way too hard, I might add—and then Jesse.
And we went to work.
***
10
Fuse
“All right, you dogs, roll call,” shouted Quint—gruffly, briskly, like a true leatherneck. “Alpha Battalion is ‘go’ for launch—and I mean hot to trot. I repeat: I am ‘go’ for launch. Bravo Company—sound off like you got a pair.”
Quint and I waited: Nothing. Not so much as a peep.
At last, Jesse said, in a voice deeper than usual: “Yes—yes, sir!” He laughed. “Bravo Company standing by! And hot to trot, sir!”
“Better late than never,” said Quint—like a disappointed drill instructor—before adding, “Okay, faster now, more intense: Forward-Battalion Charlie—let’s hear it.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
I took up my position at the base of the stairs—having just come down from loosening the doorknob—watching the entrance to the basement like a hawk; crouching over my rockets and missiles like a villain, like Wile E. Coyote. “Charlie Company—I mean Battalion, is ready to rock and roll, sir!” I bumped the flashlight and had to reposition it—so it again illuminated the fireworks. “And will fire on your command—sir!”
I braced myself as the creature—“Machine”— snorted and nudged open the door, which creaked and moaned. “And that should probably come sooner rather than later—if you know what I mean; and I think you do. And enough of this ‘sir’ shit ...”
And then we all just looked at each other: Jesse and Quint from their places at the window wells (they’d climbed atop 5-gallon buckets to reach them), each with their own rockets, and me by the stairs—by the Talon, which was now covered with only a single bag of flour, for easy retrieval.
“Be sure to light everything; like, every fuse in your arsenal,” I reminded them. “Just—go all in. Then it’s straight for the bikes ... all right? Everyone got that?”
Jesse just nodded, somberly. “And then what, do you think?”
“We put the Talon back in the Thermos and we ride, all the way to the Columbia River and beyond—to the Dalles, at least. And we don’t stop until we’re safe; like, in a hotel or something. On the very top floor.”
Quint seemed to think about it. “Yeah, but—we stop at the river ... just for a while. You know—to hang out.”
“To hang out?” I could see Jesse’s exasperation from across the room—even in the dark, or the semi-dark. “And do what, exactly? In case you were wondering, there are, like, dinosaurs out there. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“I don’t know—maybe ... maybe swim, or something. I just—look, I’ve never seen a river. All right?”
The admission knocked me back—even though there were predators at our very door. And I remember thinking, Jesus, I know there are people who have never seen the ocean—but a river? It was slightly funny and somehow heartbreaking all at the same time. I mean, Christ; what kind of people had his parents been?
“Okay, we’re stopping at the river,” I said. “Biggs Junction, I think it was called, across the U.S. 97 bridge. We’ll—we’ll celebrate. Break out some cans of tuna, or something. For Quint’s first river—and it’s a doozy.”
“What are we waiting for, then,” said Quint. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” I said. “On the count of three. You ready? One ... two ...”
There was a snarling sound and I looked at the door: saw Demon and Machine jerking and thrashing against each other violently (they’d poked their heads through at the same time and managed to get stuck; like Archie and Meathead). And now they were blocking the door completely—blocking our way out.
“Wait a minute,” I shouted. “Wait a minute ...!”
Whereupon, to my complete and utter surprise, they pulled free of the frame, and—in a riot of busting glass and clanging kitchenware—began to fight; to just tear each other apart, right there in the kitchen—at which our pathway opened again like the gates of Heaven and I barked, vociferously: “Okay, do it; do it, do it, do it!”
And we began to flick our lighters—desperately. Frenziedly.
***
11
Finale
I’d be hard-pressed to describe the bedlam that followed—and rapidly doubled, tripled, quadrupled—other than to say that what started humbly, subtly, innocuously, with a chorus of staggered hisses and frizzles, quickly became a cannonade; a fusillade, a barrage of such sound and fury and color that, had I not been so focused on lighting fuses, would surely have blinded me, at least temporarily. As it was, I was able to launch virtually everything before ricocheting rockets forced me to shelter in place (which is to say, with one skinny arm thrown over my exposed head and shoulders); after which, cowering, I could only cough and hack in the stifling smoke—all while praying nothing detonated too close. Which, as it turned out, nothing did. And, also, that the warring dinosaurs had fled. Which—as it turned out—they had.
“Jesse! Quint! Long-fuses!” I rolled the 50-pound bag off the Talon. “And remember: Straight for the bikes!” (I was referring, of course, to the special fuses we’d made; which—it was hoped—would provide cover after we left.)
“That’s a negative, hombre,” shouted Quint. “I’m fresh out of lighter fluid over here.” He quickly added: “Jesse! Get over here!”
“No!” I barked. “Belay that order! Keep up your barrage ...”
And I was on my way, bounding for Quint and holding up my lighter, shaking it, impatiently, as he turned and just stared at it—disoriented, shell-shocked. (Some of my rockets had—after ricocheting about wildly—blown up right next to him.)
“Take it!” I snapped—even as a ghost-white snout lunged at him through the window, lunged at him and crashed to a halt—snarling, gnashing its teeth; at which Quint spun upon it and clocked it in the nose, hard, and just kept clocking—until it yelped and beat a retreat.
“Okay,” I said, “go, go, go!” And he took the lighter.
And then I could only return to the Talon and snatch it up off the floor, noting its fading color, its waning strength, before swinging it around my head and barking, “There’s never going to be a better time. How much more?”
“Just about,” said Jesse, and continued: “Just—okay! Okay, I’m clear!”
I looked at Quint, who was still lighting. “All right, forget it, let ‘em go ...”
He moved the lighter from one fuse to the next. “Hold on,” he said, “just hold on ...”
At which we could only watch, rocking on our feet, hopping up and down, until he lit the last fuse and jumped down from the bucket.
And then we were hustling—double-timing it, as they say—up the stairs and out of the diner, where not a single predator could be seen. Then we were scrambling for our bikes; our pinto horses of plastic and steel; which gleamed like salvation even as the long-fused rockets began to explode and the Nano-As, active but in hiding, began to whimper and howl.
That’s when I knew it; when I could feel it in my bones: That we’d passed our first test; survived our baptism by fire. That’s when I knew that our journey would be complete—as we sat on our bikes with our spears canted at our backs (like the bows of Indian braves, I fancied) and, having returned the Talon to its canister, watched the last of the fireworks as they burst and boomed above. Watched, brooding, as they turned the sky first white then green then blue, and finally, a deep, lingering red, after which, taking a cue from our fellow animals, we began to howl ourselves.
***
12
The Mighty Columbo
I think it’s safe to say we all know the scene: it’s the one in Jurassic Park where Dr. Alan Grant—having just been informed that billionaire John Hammond has successfully recreated a T. rex—begins teetering about like a drunkard before eventually collapsing in the grass and looking on, dramatically—at the towering brachiosaurs as they wade across a small, glittering lake; at a herd of parasaurolophuses drinking in the shimmering, south American heat; at the birds fluttering about the sauropods’ great bodies. Well, that’s a little what it was like as we gazed out at the Columbia River from the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge: like something from the movies, from Jurassic Park, complete with long-necked sauropods (I think these were diplodocuses) drinking along the dry, rocky banks, and pterodactyls gathered on their broad, silver backs. Even the air was shimmering; I suppose because, although the sun showed only 10:00, it was already getting hot.
“So this is the—the Columbo River?” Quint tried not to sound too impressed. “But it’s just a lake, like on Fishin’ with the Good Ol’ Boys. It doesn’t even move.” He added: “Fuck it—all the better to swim in, right?”
“It moves, you just can’t see it,” I said. “There are currents—trust me. Same as with any river.” I looked at the brachiosaurs and then down into the silvery depths. “Besides, dude, seriously. Who knows what’s down there.”
“I’m not afraid of any currents,” said Quint. “Or prehistoric fish.” He stood and straddled his bike. “I’ll jump in right here. We all should.”
“Yeah?” said Jesse. “In what? Our birthday suits?”
Quint just looked at him. “Why not? What—you afraid somebody will see your weenie? Dude. Nobody cares. Come on.”
“I’m not getting in that water.”
“But it’s the great and storied Columbo Lake!” He glanced at me as if to gauge my reaction (I’d been talking the thing up for the last 13 miles). “I mean river.”
I guess my smile must have faded (I had been studying him keenly in the hope he might experience some sort of epiphany: about crossing thresholds, maybe, like Joseph Campbell talked about, or just appreciating the beauty and splendor of the natural world—or unnatural, as the case may be—and our diminutive place in it). “That’s Columbia,” I said. “It’s called the Columbia.” I peered down the length of the bridge to the rust-brown truss and beyond—all the way to Biggs Junction, which was just a smear of buildings. “And across the river is Oregon; the, ah, Beaver State. Which we should be getting to.”
“The Beaver State?” Quint reoriented himself to face south. “Well—hell, why didn’t you say so. I’m there, dude.” He splayed his arms above his head as though worshiping a deity. “I have found my homeland!”
“That’s not what he meant,” said Jesse. “Besides, you won’t—you wouldn’t have liked it. At all. Neither you nor your old man. Before the Flashback, I mean.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Big lib state,” he said—and began peddling away.
He called back: “You couldn’t even pump your own gas!”
And we just watched him—ride off, that is—not straight as an arrow, not aggressively, like Quint or I, but weaving, meandering.
“Is that true?” asked Quint, turning to look at me. “That you couldn’t pump your own gas? Why?”
I shrugged, continuing to watch Jesse. “Beats me. Could have been a holdover—something from the ‘50s. How am I to know? Probably wasn’t as safe back then—pumping gas, I mean.”
“Mm,” said Quint, and laughed. “He’s right, though. The old man would have had a heart attack; being told he couldn’t pump his own gas.” He added out of nowhere: “But he’s wrong to just lump us together. Me and my old man, I mean. We—we weren’t the same. Not really. He’s wrong about that.”
I turned to look at him, struck by his sudden candor—saw the same look in his eye I’d noticed at the diner, the same self-awareness. “Yeah, well,” I said. “It takes two to tangle. Maybe you should—”
“So are you,” he added—shutting me down. And then he kicked off for the truss, for the State of Oregon; for Jesse, at which I could only gaze at the river and wonder—again—at that weird moment between them (the one in the diner); that moment when they’d just stared at each other like they might kill each other on the spot. When reality itself had seemed to stretch—to warp—to shift its very meaning; and I’d felt as though I were seeing something which, like the change in my voice or the rapid growth in my legs, had only now been born—only now come into existence. A moment of rapid and unexpected change.
I looked at the weird borealis the Flashback had left behind—it was purple and blood-red today—and the strange lights that flickered deep within its depths.
Just a moment. Like a hologram, I thought, which changed depending on which angle you viewed it from. Or Schrodinger’s Cat. Or the Flashback itself: indecipherable, unfathomable, non-sensical. Absurd.
And then I put my bike in gear and followed them—my traveling companions. My bickering quest-mates who would never change; whom I didn’t want to change.
My only friends in the world.
***
13
Benson Bridge
I don’t know why we stared at that dead pterodactyl chick so long—there wasn’t anything particularly striking or even gross about it; there were no flies, for example, no maggots—just a couple of butterflies, one white and the other burnt orange, which matched the fading sunlight.
Maybe it was our nonstop ride all the way from Biggs Junction near the Washington border to Multnomah Falls, which was closer to Portland (I mean, it’s a lot of work, peddling a BMX bicycle some 70-plus miles, even across level terrain). Or maybe it was how paper-thin the creature’s exsanguinous, oyster-white skin was, how almost translucent, or the way its little talons weren’t really talons at all but little hands, like a baby’s hands. All I remember for certain is how contemplative everyone seemed to get while looking down at it—how funereal; even elegiac—like we were saying goodbye to one of our own. All I remember for certain is something akin to holding vigil for a fellow traveler; which, in a very real sense, we were.
