Twenty-One

Edgar crept barefoot across the cold hospital tile in search of supplies, knowing he would need a lot to reach his destination for this crazy plan to work. A cabinet by the bathroom surrendered a few.

Opening a tube of medicine for his jellyfish sting, he splotched it on liberally, using a tongue depressor to spread it. Then, he wrapped several gauze strips around his leg until it was mummified, and after that, just for good measure, he slipped on a neoprene leg brace that went all the way up to his thigh.

Placing weight on his freshly encased leg, he bent it and lifted it a few times, noticing it felt pretty good. Then he got dressed as quickly as he could, keeping an eye on the night nurse down the hall through a crack in the door. Wincing as he squeezed his swollen foot into a now undersized shoe, he gritted his teeth and pushed it forward until fire shot up his leg. He gulped in pain and eventually relaxed as the shoe reluctantly accepted his foot, then, after the pain settled, he took a deep breath and tied his laces.

Now he was ready.

Limping to the door, he peeked through the slit and took a deep breath.

This was insane.

In the quiet of the hospital, Edgar waited behind the door and spied through the crack until she finally slipped away for coffee. Then, when the coast was clear, he limped from the room and skirted his way down the darkened hallways, hobbling through the creepy halls amid foreign, sickly coughs, until finally he was there: standing before the big double doors of the hospital’s back exit. He pushed them both outward and dashed into the dry, Washington air.

“Free,” he said, standing in the glow of the parking lot lights.

From the hospital he headed west, limping painfully toward Cherry Blossom Lane, knowing it would be a grueling affair: his destination being at least two miles away.

As he wobbled through the side streets, he marveled at how dark and quiet the town was. There was nobody left anymore—only a stray car every ten minutes or so. This felt like a hurricane evacuation, he mused, but even more severe, because in a hurricane, you always had lots of people staying, no matter how strong the storm was—some because of their businesses, or their loved ones, their homes. Many were forced to risk the hurricane.

But in a wildfire, there was no such negotiation. Fire was fire, and there was no rolling the dice with that. And so, it had made Mount Lanier a ghost town. Finally, after two long hours of painful hobbling using the stick from a lawn sign as a cane, he limped wearily on to Dr. Van Rossum’s lawn, eyeing the windows from the curbside, trying to make sure nobody was watching. But when he saw the house was dark, he realized that the doctor had probably evacuated too.

So, slipping around back, he peered around in the darkness. There, leaning against some lawn furniture, was his trusty bike and trailer.

Doctor Van Rossum had kept it outside in case he returned, God bless him.

Edgar lifted it and rolled it around the side of the house, then mounted it on the curb and was off, down the dimly lit street, pedaling for home, using mostly his left leg for the heavy pushing.

Sure, it was very painful, especially when he hit big bumps, but the cast and medicine were providing great cushion.

Maybe if he ever got back to school and turned his grades around he would go into the medical field. He seemed to have a knack for it. After all, he did save his own life.

Finally back home, he turned the key and walked into the house. It was dark and quiet inside, and very creepy. With the glaring absence of his mom and dad it didn’t seem much like a home anymore. He flipped the lights on and moved directly down the hall, straight to his room. There, he unscrewed the back of his television with a Phillip’s head screwdriver, and from inside the box, took a large stack of money that had been hiding there for days—his emergency money. Money his mother never found, thankfully. It was folded and wrapped carefully with a thick rubber band and as he thumbed through it, he nodded. All fifteen hundred dollars were accounted for: everything that remained from his final hauls of Ambercod.

Pushing the money deep into his pockets, he then crossed the hallway to the bathroom and there, yanked open the medicine cabinet. Its contents were studied until he began to snatch items feverishly, especially medicines: Tylenol, Triple Antibiotic Ointment, Hydrocortisone Cream, Rubbing Alcohol, Peroxide, Band Aids, Gauzes, two bottles of Sunscreen, and a half bottle of painkillers. Surveying his throbbing leg, he popped open the bottle of painkillers and downed two for the miles he’d logged. Then, he snatched his favorite toothbrush, along with two tubes of toothpaste, and dumped everything into two large, empty duffle bags.

After that, he made his way to the kitchen.

There, he yanked open the pantry door and went for the MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) on the bottom shelf. They were square packages of food used just for emergencies, their stock compiled by his father for the hurricanes they used to have back in Bon Secour. Edgar checked the dates on the packages: still good. Of them he chose the Turkey Tetrazzini and the Hearty Beef Stew, both complete with sides, dessert, crackers, plastic utensils, and even moist towelettes for good measure.

He shoved it all into his duffle bags.

Then he snatched every chocolate bar and Hostess Ding Dong in the pantry, as well as the Pop Tarts and two big bags of chips. He also snatched as many canned goods as his duffle bag would hold, but only the stuff he liked: no English peas or carrots or yams, because they were gross.

Then he stacked the bags by the door, making his way solemnly to his father’s office, where, inside, he powered up the computer and searched the internet for a world map, hovering his mouse above the Indian Ocean. There, he zoomed in and scribbled notes on his father’s note pad.

Next he traced the water currents with an index finger, knowing that if out on the open sea, it would be critical to know which way the water flowed. Staring at the French Southern and Antarctic Islands on his father’s Mac, he calculated the distance from his island. It was a long, long boat ride away.

About four hundred miles away, to be exact.

Realizing this, reclining back in his father’s office chair, he began to second-guess his entire plan.

It really wasn’t safe. It was suicide. But then again what choice did he have?

Sitting up, he ripped the top piece from a note pad on his dad’s desk and set it aside, then, carefully, he detached another. On one sheet, he addressed the letter to “Mom.” The other was addressed to Shay Sinclair.

Upon them he wrote slowly and legibly, printing, concentrating on forming each letter to its most eloquent curvature since his handwriting was fairly awful. He would have to be very careful here; these were only the most important letters he’d ever write in his life.

When they were written and he was satisfied, he slid them into two business envelopes and licked the flaps shut, then moved from the back office to the kitchen where he stood before his father’s ultra heavy duty raincoat: a high-grade piece of raingear that was worn during the strong Gulf storms out on the oil rig. It hung on the back door, yellower than a school bus. Yes, it could probably withstand a hurricane.

Lifting it from the hook, he tried it on, stretching his arms out as far as he could reach. Even with his fingers barely poking through the cuffs, he nodded. It was big, but it would definitely do.

Just as he was about to leave, he turned around and beheld the empty house: a half-eaten loaf of bread, his father’s humidor, his mother’s knitting case. Their artifacts. His heart was heavy now. There would be no saying goodbye. The ghosts of his family were there, haunting him through every object. Maybe tomorrow, before nightfall, it would even be burning to the ground. Scanning the kitchen through a blur of hot tears, he noticed a blinking red light on the answering machine. He readjusted the bags on his shoulders and walked over to hit play.

“Hello, this is Shay Sinclair. I’m calling for Edgar,” Shay’s soft voice uttered. “I just wanted to say that, Edgar, we’re leaving tomorrow. I wanted to tell you—him—goodbye. We don’t have cell reception any more. We’re heading for Alaska tonight. If anybody gets this, would you tell him to call me?”

He hit save.

__________

Readjusting his packs once more, he kicked open the back door with his one good leg and hobbled out to the dark shed. Opening the door, with the aid of his keychain flashlight, he spotted his father’s tackle box: the holy grail of all fishing. Opening it carefully, as if it was the Ark itself, he checked to make sure that the survival knife was there, along with the heavy tackle and the weatherproof lighter and the tiny burner—not to mention the flares and the can opener.

Nodding with satisfaction, he snapped the lid down and packed the tackle box in the duffle bag.

Then, finally, when he was all packed up, he turned to the back of the shed and took a deep, steadying breath, then eyed the latch on the floor. There, beneath the floorboards, resided the last item he needed to take.

Standing over the hatch, he lifted it and peered nervously into the sinister blackness below. With a canvas bag slung around his shoulders, he took a deep whiff of the dank, musty earth, and lowered himself down into the sinister crawlspace.

It was time to pack the dynamite.

__________

The trailer scraped the asphalt as he pedaled his supplies back to town, a flapping blue tarp hanging loosely over the supplies, kind of reminding Edgar of a superhero’s cape.

His leg felt much better at the moment, as the painkiller was settling in, which made him feel warm and tingly inside and made the tip of his nose feel itchy.

It was almost eight o’clock. It was getting late. With a new sense of urgency, he wheeled into the Walmart Supercenter and parked the bike by a cement pylon near the front, then chained up his bike. Suddenly, he could sense a large automobile encroaching upon him from behind.

He turned. It was a gigantic truck bearing down on him, with all its glass blackened as it pumped loud, blaring music into the parking lot.

As the roar of the loud engine quaked, he peered into the passenger-side window.

It was Chris Weedy and two friends. They all cackled hysterically at Edgar.

Weedy leaned to the window and locked eyes with Edgar.

“I’m so glad we found you!” he purred.

“Weedy,” said Edgar. “A fire’s coming, dumbass. Is there really time for this?”

Chris spat out the window. “Is there a better time for this, redneck?”

Edgar backed away from the bike and readied his good leg. As Chris continued edging the huge truck up to the curb, Edgar glanced at the front door of Walmart to measure the distance.

“I guess you’ve been following me?” Edgar shouted over the rap music, which sent the jocks into maniacal convulsions.

“For miles, redneck,” smiled Chris. “And now, we’ve got you.”

Edgar nodded grimly. “I see. Well, I hope you haven’t forgotten our little deal. I wouldn’t want to go to the police with all your naughty pictures.”

At that, Weedy let loose an evil laugh, tossing his head back and really howling. “The town is going to burn down. I’m not scared of the cops. Better run!” Suddenly his laughter ceased. His eyes narrowed and from his lap, he lifted his cellphone to show Edgar.

Somehow he’d gotten it from Flounder!

Edgar turned and made for the front doors of the store, limping like crazy. As he did, the three boys leapt from the truck and bolted after him. With his leg convulsing in pain, he hobbled as fast as he could, making for the automatic double doors just a few feet away.

“Punk!” Chris shouted, right behind him now, but just then Edgar made it inside.

“Hello sir!” he said loudly to the Walmart Greeter, then turned to the stacked-up boys and smirked, knowing he had made it to sanctuary.

Chris glared back like the devil.

“You’re dead,” he grumbled.

Then Chris and his boys backed away toward the double doors, retreating into the dry night. “We’ll see you outside,” he hissed, just before the doors closed.

Once they were gone, Edgar crept to the door to see what they were doing. Chris and his two boys were busy rummaging through his stuff! In a panic, Edgar limped over to the help desk and asked for security.

“What’s wrong?” asked an associate.

“I am being robbed,” said Edgar. “There are three boys—I mean gang members—stealing all my stuff.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed the lady.

Moments later Edgar was outside flanked by a uniformed guard. He had a stern, wrinkly face, and a shiny badge on his shirt.

“Are those the boys?” he asked Edgar.

“Yeah, that’s them!” said Edgar loudly, and when Chris looked over, he summoned his goons and they bolted for the truck.

The night guard tried to get the tag number as they fled, but he wasn’t fast enough. Squinting, he flopped his note pad shut in frustration and turned to Edgar.

“Did you say that kid is fourteen years old?” he asked, “and driving around parking lots like that?”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “That’s probably the safest thing he does.”

“Well, he’s gonna kill somebody if we don’t get him off the road,” said the guard. “I’m gonna go call the police, not that they’ll be able to do anything tonight, what with everything else that’s going on in town.” He pointed to the red skyline. There, set against the dark sky, the glowing fire raged like hell itself. Finally, it had become visible, something no longer on the TV or to be talked about as if still far away, but it was here, in town: it had arrived.

Edgar and the guard stood in silence and, for a long moment, they watched the glowing flames against the backdrop of a night sky.

When the guard returned inside to call the police, Edgar returned to his trailer and retied the bungees on the tarp that Chris and his guys had undone, making sure that the dynamite was still there and perfectly strapped down.

Luckily they hadn’t located the dynamite, probably because Edgar had buried it beneath his other supplies.

With the trailer secured, Edgar walked back into Walmart and marveled at the amount of people who were still there shopping. These were the last remaining people in Mount Lanier, he figured. All of them stood in long lines seeking last minute items: buying generators, coolers, tie downs, gas cans, food, water, and all other sorts of things. Edgar thought about the last minute shopping dashes of people back home in Bon Secour before a hurricane, and as he walked past all the waiting people on his way to the Sporting Goods section, he noticed that they were all looking at him. Forlornly, wearily, every single one of them gaped at him. For a moment he wondered why; but then, suddenly, he remembered.

He was wearing his father’s yellow raincoat. He forgot he was still wearing it! It stretched comically down to his shins and engulfed his arms, and suddenly he realized how strange he probably looked, especially since there had not been a drop of rain in Mount Lanier for almost a half a year now.

__________

After forty-five minutes of shopping, collecting all the other supplies he would eventually need, he emerged from the store with two heaping shopping carts full of stuff, then scanned the hazy lot for signs of Weedy’s truck. Positive that Chris was gone, he quickly proceeded to the trailer where he unloaded the goods, piling them up, then strapping them down with caution.

Then, afterward, he pedaled off into the night, making a wild dash for the suburbs, and for Flounder.

He was almost home.

He was almost to the point of no return.