“When I die I want to meet God and say, what the hell were you thinking, like what were you thinking?”
—Indian Larry
“Hold on to yourself Bartlett, you’re twenty feet short.”
—Steve McQueen
…from the movie THE GREAT ESCAPE
“…I’ll be right out…Nice coat…”
—Marv…a.k.a. Mickey Rourke
…from the movie SIN CITY
“If I had to describe him, I’d say he looked like Elvis Presley.”
—Lorenzo Lamas
…from the episode The King and I from the television series RENEGADE
IN ACT ONE/SCENE # 1: Lorenzo Lamas and Branscombe Richmond have been released from an underground minimum security facility in the Nevada desert. Supervisor Hanover, the head of the facility, has agreed to erase their records if they agree to search for diesel fuel and attempt to make contact with any others that may have survived an EMP attack on the United States. Thousands of hidden EMP devices, smuggled into our country by terrorists, have been set off destroying most everything electrical. Since then the facility where they have been kept has not been able to contact or hear from anyone. With the exception of a strange (a woman by the name of KWOP Kate has been playing Doo Wop music and asking if anyone is out there) broadcast from an AM radio station northwest of them near Bridgeport California, they’ve not heard from another person.
With only about two days of fuel remaining for the facility’s electrical generator, because it was underground its circuits were protected, Lorenzo and Branscombe along with a mechanic named Talbot head north to hopefully find more diesel fuel and make contact with KWOP Kate. Lorenzo and Branscombe are riding ahead on motorcycles scouting for a path through the abandoned vehicles; they’re finding more vehicles the further north they go.
For whatever reason nighttime shadows, maybe because of the effects the EMP devices had upon Earth’s magnetic lines of force, are suspected of being dangerous if not lethal and are to be avoided. Lorenzo and Branscombe are about to find out what other effects the EMP devices have had on the world around them.
At the end of Scene # 1 they’ve finally been able to find and fix an abandoned diesel tanker; Talbot is driving it back to the facility. Lorenzo and Branscombe are now on their way to where Kate is broadcasting from Spanky’s Café. Hanover was able find the café’s position by triangulating the AM station’s signal strength. They’re anxious to get to the café before the day ends.
FADE IN: Less than a minute later Branscombe and I were about a mile down the highway, shifting into our highest gear and heading north; two low flying canaries a.k.a. guinea pigs trying to catch the wind. For the rest of the day Branscombe’s big Indian set a fast pace, not into the triple digits, but fast enough to keep my Wide Glide in 6th gear most of the time. Clusters of abandoned cars and trucks would slow us down; one ten mile cluster for over an hour until we could find a way to wind our way through. When we finally turned off the two lane highway onto the road leading into the foothills and to where Hanover had marked Spanky’s Café on the map the shadows were beginning to lengthen.
Branscombe instead of pressing on suddenly pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped beside two abandoned cars.
“Abandoned vehicles are becoming fewer and farther between. I make a motion we top-off our tanks now on the chance these are the last vehicles we see before we get to Spanky’s Café. We’ve enough fuel to make the fifty or so miles to where Hanover marked it on the map, but on the chance Hanover was wrong…”
“But on the chance Hanover was wrong,” I added, seconding Branscombe’s motion, “we’ll at least have enough gas to make it back to these cars.”
The Toyota van closest to the center of the road was near empty; the Mustang closest to the guardrail was nearly full. Evening shadows had crept up and over the guardrail and were almost touching the Mustang’s rear wheel.
Our siphon consisted of a small battery powered pump that drained gas into a gallon plastic bag. It was another example of Talbot’s mechanical ingenuity, that and the fact he was able to get the diesel tanker repaired and running in less than an hour.
Branscombe had already filled six bags fueling our bikes. He was in the process of filling the last one that would allow me to top-off my Wide Glide when he yelled and pointed at the shadow he’d just stepped in, “Ouch, it’s gotta be as cold as cryogenic gas!”
Looking at where he was pointing, I could see the shadow that had once been touching the guardrail had now stretched across the road to where he was standing. We’d been in and out of isolated shadows throughout the day with no ill effects. The shadow that had touched Branscombe was uninterrupted, seemingly infinite and reached across the fields, the hills and on into the darkness of approaching dusk.
“Lorenzo, it numbs you legs; if you stayed in it for over a minute you’d be too numb to move.”
Taking the last gallon of gas Branscombe had siphoned I finished filling my Wide Glide; there was about a pint left in the plastic bag.
“Get on your bike, get ready to roll out of here; I’ve a theory about these shadows and I hope I’m wrong,” I’d already poured the remaining gas across the shadow, started my bike and had lit a match.
“If the flames from your fire travel up the fumes flowing down from that Mustang’s open tank we’re going to get more than our eyebrows singed”
“Not to worry, the wind’s in our favor,” I said throwing the match into the puddle of gas.
What happened next was more unexpected than having the Mustang explode. From where the shadow was touched by flames a dark layer of it retreated like a broken wave back down the beach, back over the guardrail. It was as if the darker layer had been riding piggyback on top of the normal shadow; but I had to be sure if my theory was correct. Risking the fumes from the open tank might at any moment be ignited with a change in the wind; I got off my bike, walked over to the where Branscombe had been standing and touched what, for want of a better word, would’ve been a normal shadow.
“It’s not cold. It’s as if there’s another layer to it; a dark opaque layer that rides along on top of the normal shadow. In fact you can see it; it’s the pure black part that’s moved off into the field, the part that retreated from the light of the burning gasoline…”
“…that’s moving closer now,” Branscombe completed what I was about to say, “that your fire’s dying down! What do you say we ‘not’ find out if that darker layer holds a grudge against you for setting it on fire; what do you say we figure this all out ‘after’ we get to Spanky’s Café.”
Our decision to top-off proved to be a good one; the Mustang we’d siphoned gas from would be the last car we’d see before climbing the foothills leading to the small valley where Hanover had marked the place where KWOP Kate broadcast her AM signal. Cresting the last hill we could just see Spanky’s about three miles away. Twilight had chased us to this valley; shadows were reaching across the road.
Since leaving Talbot, Talbot had elected to drive the diesel tanker truck back to Hanover at the facility, Branscombe and I had kept a near ninety mile an hour pace towards the northwest. Highway 6 and 95 had been crossed. Blocking the western sky the Sierra Nevada Mountains were always to our left; 10,000 foot Potato Peak had been to our right for the last half an hour. Bridgeport’s exit was passed; signs for the Twin Lakes turnoff were behind us.
We were in California, of that I was sure. The spot Hanover had made marking the location of Spanky’s Café was at the end of a valley entering the Hoover Wilderness. We’d been lucky in finding gas along the way and being able to weave our way through clusters of abandoned vehicles blocking the road. Had we been in a car we would’ve been stopped long ago.
Always in the back of our minds was the mystery surrounding nighttime shadows. Isolated daytime shadows, except for the shadow we found between the bus and the van seemed normal. It was Branscombe’s encounter with the edge of the nighttime shadow that was enough to make us ride as fast as we could, faster if we could’ve; Hayabusas would’ve helped. Whether it was the effects of the EMP detonations or the result of, according to Aleut Indian legend, the door to Hell being opened; it was nighttime we feared.
Spanky’s Café was a speck, barely insight. Covering the road, except for a path of light on the right, leading to the café was nighttime’s shadow; the sun was setting. Blackness was flowing down the Sierra’s flanks advancing eastward.
I’d pulled to a stop ahead of Branscombe when I turned to face him, “We’ve a strip of light maybe two feet wide between twilight’s shadow and where the pavement reaches the edge of the road and we’ve about three more miles to go until we reach Spanky’s. Even with us riding at top speed we’ll be threading a needle between nighttime and the road’s shoulder before we get to the cafe and that’s if we’re lucky. If luck’s not with us, we’ll run out of daylight.”
Having given my pep-talk, I twisted the throttle open and prayed the Wide Glide, as much as I loved Harleys, could’ve changed itself into a Yamaha Road Warrior. Praying it could change into a Hayabusa would’ve been too much.
The big Indian followed me to 115 mph; the Wide Glide might’ve made it to 120, maybe even higher. I backed off; I’d make it to the café with Branscombe or not at all, and then suddenly we were in shadow. We had a half a mile to go and we’d run out of daylight, and then our engines quit running. We could’ve coasted that last half mile had the road not been on an incline; we came to stop less than a quarter of a mile away from Spanky’s Café.
The change in temperature took our breath away. It was as if the two of us had been teleported to Siberia; we were moments from freezing.
“Get your bandana up around your face,” Branscombe had become a drill instructor and was yelling in my face, “and breathe through your nose. That’s an order Marine!”
He’d already stabbed a hole in his tank and was filling a plastic bag with leaking gas. He handed me a plastic bag and motioned for me to do the same to the Wide Glide.
“Hurry, catch as much gas as you can; we’ve got less than a minute. Any longer and we’ll be so numb it’ll be too late; it won’t make any difference.”
I was still trying to fill my plastic bag from the hole I’d punched in the Wide Glide’s gas tank when I realized I’d left my surfboard outside and that the afternoon sun would melt the wax…and that Sunset Beach would soon be breaking…
“Hey, Marine…no sleeping…follow me…NOW!
Branscombe had reached down into whatever reserve I’ve seen him reach into before and gotten me moving. I would’ve been asleep dreaming of Hawaii…forever…had he not awakened me.
Movement was already painful and we’d only gone about twenty five yards. Branscombe stopped abruptly; we’d been leaking gas from our plastic bags from where we’d left our bikes. His first match should’ve lit but it didn’t; his second didn’t either. I had a vision of us playing a weird version of Hans Christian Andersen’s LITTLE MATCH GIRL. His third match, but only after he’d held it against a Hawaiian tattoo at the base of his neck, finally burst into flame. Instead of throwing the burning match at the trail of gas Branscombe bent down and touched it to the fuel. Immediately following the whooshing sound all fuels make when they’re ignited was what I thought was the sound of a faint high pitch scream coming from the retreating shadow.
When the trail of flame reached our bikes the Wide Glide exploded first, the Indian a second later. Flaming gas coupled with bits and pieces of fenders and tanks were thrown outward creating a circle of light nearly a hundred feet wide. It was dumb luck Branscombe and I weren’t hit by the debris.
“Hurry!” came from a long away and from a tall woman standing in the doorway of Spanky’s Café.
“Better do what the lady says;” Branscombe was already running towards the café, “we’ve seconds of light.”
With less than a hundred feet to go it already felt we’d run miles and then with only fifty feet left our light disappeared. At the same time a burning roadside flare was thrown from the doorway in our direction. It would be our life preserver; we’d make it to Spanky’s Café.
ACT ONE/SCENE #3 WE MEET KATE
TO BE CONTINUED
“We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show…”
By: Omar Khayyam…RUBAIYAT
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