Weave's Ride

 Weave stared across the snow drifts expecting an eventful evening. 

 Twenty-four years living like a sneak by kerosene lamps, his soul nourished by hatred, his heart deprived the consolations of age. He’d resisted as the sprawling factory stole his farm acres and polluted his valley. His scraggly beard had grown long and gray. Deep crow’s feet lined his clever brown eyes. . 

  His golden years were nothing but rust until he found Detective Joe unconscious on the carpet in the old A frame all frost bit, lost in the blizzard. When he stirred, he seemed a decent sort, comfortable in his own skin and focused on finding his partner’s killer. It felt like providence, like a blessing. 

  “Things are gonna shine a bit brighter tonight,” he hummed, fingering his old rifle. 

  There were a few old friends worlds away, his children and grandchildren. But his wife Clara was long gone and with her went the best of him. He could sense her standing on the porch of the farmhouse, hands on her apron, gazing across the yard. He yearned for the smoothness of her straw colored hair, the sweet outdoor smell of her clothes. She couldn’t bear the destruction of the valley. When the streams began to go acid, she dragged bags of baking soda into the current hoping to save the fish. 

  He sucked in a deep sigh suffering a familiar weight in his chest. 

  The kids were never pleased about milking cows, mucking stables and minding the chickens. Cindy, the oldest, had called eight years ago but she was distant, long married and living near Baltimore. She said she had three children he'd never seen and why didn't he come and visit and leave the damn valley and why this and why that but he just let her drone on until she ran out of steam. It wasn't that it didn't hurt. He couldn't find words. 

  He didn't know her.   

  She’d left with her sisters before the water turned acid, the soil went bad and the locals were bought off or fled. But he remained, a solitary bobcat defending his empty den in a dying forest.

  Scowling beside a wax candle in the basement kitchen he began a will--just in case. The mountain was four distinct parcels and although he had lost the river frontage to the factory, he owned the upper acres. Sipping black coffee from a chipped mug, he left each daughter a piece. It was worthless, he figured, but who knew what the future would bring? Impulsively, in a questionable gesture, he willed the A frame to frost-bitten Joe. Detective Joe was a fly fisherman who knew and loved the old river. He was going after the hated factory. 

 What's more, Joe listened, believed him at face value and that stirred a buried confidence. He’d long imagined the horror of telling a cop that he'd seen his dead dog come back to life.

 ‘Deputy, my dog Bismark rose from the dead with an orange glow in his eyes.’ They‘d have locked up an old hermit like me.

  But Joe knew. Joe believed. Joe had a heart.

  For a moment he thought he'd lost his mind. Maybe Bismark had never been sick. He’d shot his own dog in a fit. Delirium, age and loneliness.

  But Joe’d seen the Tracers. Said something about an AI, a company plot. Even said he’d felt them once.

  Whatever Joe felt, it paled compared to what he’d felt, that pact with the devil, that tingling, gripping heat that probed when he touched Bismark, like tentacles of Lucifer snaking from Hell itself. Detective Joe didn't know all of that. He’d felt a tingle. Not the terrible sharing of everything and the wonderful instant of oblivion--relief from the pain of all the years. He couldn’t share that—or the jarring flash when it pulled away as if on to something else. 

   He looked up from his scribbling, glanced suspiciously around the flickering shadows. On a few sheets of yellowed paper he jotted all he could recall about the Tracers. Maybe Joe or someone else would need it. 

    Just in case.

   Pulling on a red ski cap, he climbed the stairs slowly, touching the faded walls with sad reverence. The A frame had been his companion through lonely years and it was perhaps time to leave the Valley, to say a sad good-bye. 

  He recalled the road as the Old Ripperton Road, not State 78. His valley was a parade of faces, small stores, local churches and neighbors long gone. He cherished the endless cycles of green summer, red and yellow autumns, harvest apples and heavy snows that melted in the sweet rain of spring. The corporate invaders were not the first disaster. They arrived after the infection of cheap condos and the acid rain that destroyed a way of life stretching back to the eighteenth century. He was proud that his family had farmed the Ripperton Valley since 1810. Somewhere in the A frame was an old trunk filled with pictures and historical memorabilia.

   Maybe Joe will find it and learn something.

  He and saw smoke rising from the factory stacks and spit into the snow.

  “4:41. Suns gone. Almost time.”

  He’d bundled himself in a flannel shirt, a brown corduroy vest, a tweed jacket, khaki flannel pants over thermals, two sweaters, a down parka, the red ski cap and all kinds of socks. He chuckled knowing how he must look and buckled his rubber snow boots.

  "Not exactly a night in shining armor," he said to the A frame as he stepped deeper into the stinging cold. 

 He trudged head down, rifle slung over his shoulder, pulling an ancient flexible flyer across fresh powder to a crumbling shed behind the A frame. Fumes of kerosene and gasoline stirred memories of cherished cars and tractors, first dates and trips to the lake.

 Cans strapped to the sled, he patted his breast pocket to double check his lighter and set out to the frozen river.

 It was overwhelming to have purpose, to be part of a team, He pulled the sled nimbly across packed snow feeling giddy and invincible. Detective Joe had gifted him something he hadn’t felt in years--a special moment. 

 He thought of Joe’s frostbite, his unyielding dedication to the case he was following. How brave he seemed risking it all to break into that horrid factory compound alone. 

 Wish I’d known him sooner. I hope the Tracers don’t find him.

  Near the Ripperton, he slowed, listened for the sound of trucks knowing he needed to cross the narrow water by the road. With a sharp breath, he stepped cautiously onto thin ice, pulling back in time as it cracked. He set his foot down at a thicker spot and inched forward dragging the sled. A crunching sound sent a rush of adrenaline through his old frame as he neared the far bank. The flexible flier slid hard into his boots as wind whipped the river and he fell breathless onto the moonlit shore. 

   Naked tree shadows patterned the snow. He shook ice from his parka, wiggled cold toes and approached the junk pile behind Jake’s collapsing old tackle shop. He reached tentatively into a deep drift coming up with an assortment of old beer bottles.

   “Ah, my favorite!" he exclaimed, tipping the gas canister to fill a Rolling Rock. But the bottle was clogged with ice and precious fuel stained the snow. 

  He shivered, cold numbing his face, his breath puffing in white clouds.

  “If this ain't the dumbest thing.”

  Car tires screeched on the next hill. He grabbed the cleanest bottle, scraped out the acid ice and snow with a stick and filled it with gas. 

 "Show time," he shouted admiring his creation. The flaming rag whipped in the wind as he tossed it into the sagging store. The bottle shattered, fire spreading in a flash through the wooden beams. 

 "Yeah! Alright, alright!" 

  Detective Joe had asked that he create a simple diversion, giving Joe an opportunity sneak into the compound. Fire would attract Deputy Roland’s people and create a big fuss.

  Bottles clinked as he pulled the sled into a ditch across the road. The flames whipped with a sucking noise. His spirits danced. He could barely wait for the cruel, half-witted deputy to show up. 

  Wheels squealing, a large car crested the curve. Headlights swept the ditch and turned sharply toward the snowy garbage pile. The vehicle stopped, its electric engine humming. The driver’s door flipped open and a silhouette emerged against the flames. Weave made out a silver and black corporate police jacket and a drawn pistol.  

  "What the hell do we have here?" Roland growled. He eyed up and down the icy road. Weave ducked in the ditch. 

  Roland cautiously approached the flames as Weave unslung his rifle and defensively centered him in the sight. He knew he couldn’t shoot a man, not even a worthless snake like Roland who’d harassed Clara. Not that he planned to. But... 

   He shakily lowered the rifle.

    Keep it safe and simple. That’s what Joe said.

   Acid snow bit his fingers. Cold crept up his legs, staggered his breath.

  Ah! Snatch that warm car. That’s it! Slap in Roland’s face. Scoot outa here...

  Quietly, he removed everything from the sled save the gas canister. He made certain it was properly positioned and pushed the sled from behind. 

  The hungry flames reached an apex as Roland searched the burning ruin. His silhouette moved like a phantom against the firelight. He knelt to examine the freshly dug bottles and with inspired strength, Weave shoved the Flexible Flyer to the car, yanked open the door and wrestled the canister to the passenger seat.

  “Hey! You! What the hell do you think you're...Hey! Stop! I'll shoot!"

  Panting, Weave paid him no mind, climbed in, pulling the door closed. The car was like no car he'd ever seen, but essentially, it was a car. His feet barely reached the pedals. He pushed the ‘forward’ button and the car strained against the emergency brake. He searched frantically. No lever, no foot switch. It had to be somewhere on the control screen.

  “Dang it to hell.” He pushed every button on the screen. The headlights lights went off, wipers sputtered, the back suspension lifted. The heater shut off and suddenly the brake released. 

  Roland ran towards him, pistol raised, flames outlining his shadowed form. 

  Weave hit the accelerator and veered violently toward the road. A shot crossed the hood shattering the outside mirror. He ducked, yanking the wheel to the left. The vehicle careened into a skid, spinning on ice, the wheel turning uselessly in his shaking hands. Roland sprinted towards him as the tires hit a patch of exposed rock. Rubber squealed. The powerful car thrust forward. Roland's gun flew into the flame lit night as he was swallowed by the front bumper. The wheels thumped horribly and came to a stop. 

  Weave sat, breathless, gloved knuckles molded to the wheel. He tried to breathe but the air kept slipping away. His trembling legs wouldn't calm. A voice in his heart told him that he'd killed someone, accident or not. And maybe it wasn't an accident at all, and maybe Roland wasn't even dead yet and it ain't over 'til it’s over. He breathed enough to find the courage to look. The body lay still in the flickering light. 

  “Don’t let theTracers raise this one,” he pleaded reverently, backing up the car. The deputy’s head was crushed. Porridge rose in Weave’s throat and he quickly looked away. 

  Eyes tearing, he turned onto the icy road. Blackness smothered the car as he drove from the flames, headlights off. He slowed, hands quivering and stopped in the dark.

 You old fool. You made your fire, killed a cop, stole his car. That aught to do just fine. Drive outta here and never look back.

  He stared at the icy river, breathed deep. The car pointed towards the factory.

  He looked through the frosted windshield and mourned his family, his valley, his way of life.

  Clara always had such a pretty garden... My Clara ...

  Gripping the wheel tightly, he hit the accelerator. The machine thrust forward. Lights off he leaned over the dash for a better view. Glanced at the gas canister. The massive factory shimmered ahead.

 “Roland, what's with that fire? Where are you?" the police com chattered.

   Sorry Joe. You ain’t gonna like this... 

  Leaning to check the passenger door handle, he understood it was a one-shot deal. He'd launch the canister out the door and skedaddle if possible. Not a great plan, but he was beyond concern.

    Payback time! 

  He stopped by a massive snow drift. Ripped a cocktail fuse from his flannel shirt with an unsteady hand. The rag soaked the gas greedily but he spilled some on the seat. Fumes filled the car making him woozy. He leaned the canister against the door, the fuse bent toward him. the retro car cigarette lighter pushed in. 

  “Forgive me, Joe.” He gulped and hit the pedal.

  The road climbed a curve into a straight-away that stretched to the main factory gate. A small checkpoint guardhouse sat to the right. 

   He pulled the handle on the passenger door feeling the car muscle forward. Time slowed. A lone uniformed figure waved his arms. A rude spotlight blinded him through the windshield. Cold wind rushed through the open door as he pulled out the lighter and looked bravely at the glowing coil.

  "For Clara," he whispered.

  A shot shattered his windshield spraying razors of glass into his face. The wheel jerked and the lighter fell to the seat. 

  With a whoosh his seat was in flames. The car spun wildly. His clothes were on fire. He groped in vain for the burning canister calmly certain that he'd made a fine decision. 

  The car careened, smashed the factory gate and vaporized in a ferocious blast as sirens echoed across the frozen valley.