SIXTY-FIVE

IN THE HEAT, A TWENTY-MINUTE WALK TOOK FORTY-FIVE.

The sun wrapped every inch of bare skin like hot cellophane. Hair curling. Smelled like toast. There were three patches of shade on the way, and they stopped at all of them. Breathing in the deep blue spaces. Drinking cool air.

“That sun can add 40 degrees,” Malachi said. “Let’s be wise.”

At the mountain’s edge, bouldering left them breathless. Scree, slippery. Griff turned his body into a machine. Move, he demanded of his legs. Keep moving. They paused partway. Griff leaned against the silver sandstone and heard his flesh sizzle. He dribbled water on the burn.

“Don’t waste water,” Malachi said.

Near the top, a crack in the mountain’s flank gaped like a half smile. A decorative silver fish had been painted near the opening. Bright eyes. Sad lips.

“The Snookout,” Malachi said. “This is where I nailed your drone.”

They pressed into the cool wash of shade. He could breathe. In the deepest pit of shadow, a cache of equipment. Malachi cleared a space for Griff to sit, and the two of them tucked into the viewing area.

“Pretty sweet,” Griff said.

“Yes it is. Want a look?” Malachi asked, offering the binoculars.

“Got my own,” Griff said. He took out his monocular.

“You military?” Malachi asked.

“Prepper,” Griff said.

“What’s a prepper?”

“Like a Doomsday Boy Scout,” Griff said.

“Ah, doomsday preppers,” Malachi said. “Wow. Never met one in the wild. Take a gander. This is what’s got Simon worried.”

The car was immediately obvious. Regardless of its markings, it moved the way every cop drives everywhere. Like a breezy little shark with the biggest teeth in the ocean. Griff turned the dial, crisping up his focus. No sticker on the front bumper. Not a car from Clade City.

“Prepper, huh?” Malachi said. “What finally gets us, you think? Nuclear attack? Bigger, badder pandemic? Natural disaster?”

“Hopefully not this asshole,” Griff said.

“Shoot,” Malachi laughed. “He’s getting close. See those shrubs? That’s our access road. We don’t want him there.”

“What can we do?”

“Well. I got the jammer from yesterday. And the Imp Cannon.”

“What?”

“Electromagnetic pulse,” he said. “Everything out here gets a new name.”

From the elevated position, Griff could just make out the white trail snaking through shrubs around a shoulder of stone. Malachi took out the device. Telescoping pieces and two battery packs. He had quick, practiced hands. On the barrel’s tip, someone had affixed little felt ears. Hand-painted: IMP CANNON.

“Do you know how to work it?” Griff asked.

“I do,” Malachi said. “But that’s an officer of the law. I’ll go ahead and let you do the honors, Captain Tripp. Not going to stop him unless he’s a robot.”

“It might stop the car,” Griff said.

Maybe, this far from civilization, it would be enough to scare him off. The police car stopped a moment. Griff adjusted his monocular. The officer was pulling out a pair of binoculars, twin glasses flashing.

“Down,” Griff said.

They ducked into the dark, breathing hard. A soft rumble in the air. The squad car was moving again. Griff adjusted his grip on the EMP. Braced it against his shoulder.

“Is it warmed up?” he asked.

“Not quite.” Malachi tapped Griff’s paracord. He flinched. “What’s that?”

“Nylon paracord. A prepper thing.”

“You play piano, right?”

“Yeah,” Griff said. “I actually saw one earlier today. I’d love to find it.”

Malachi raised his eyebrows.

“The piano?” Malachi said. “Talk about scary.”

“What?”

“You’re armed.”

The battery pack felt warm against his burn. Griff reminded himself the EMP would not hurt the officer. Just a pause button. Buy a little time. Griff squinted the monocular into his left eye. The car beetled along. Griff led his target by a few yards and pressed the button. Zwoop, like an old arcade game, vaporizing an alien.

The car shuddered, stopped.

“Oh dang! That’s the business right there,” Malachi said. “Ha!”

High five, and the car grunted.

NNnnnn Nnnnnn

The door banged open. The officer was wiry, broad shoulders. He looked around. Took his phone out. Shook his phone. Threw his phone in the sand.

“Oooo he’s pissed,” Malachi said. “You know that guy?”

“No,” Griff said. “Thank god.”

The officer tried his car again. Malachi and Griff slipped down into the shadows, giggling. It felt fun. Like they’d just toilet-papered a house together.

Eventually, the car’s engine fired. A roaring sound.

The cruiser only got a few miles away. Stopped again. A small blot in the landscape.

“Car trouble, Officer?” Malachi said.

“I hope he can get out okay,” Griff said.

“I’ll radio Simon,” Malachi said. “He’ll send someone to check on him.”

“What time’s the show tonight?” Griff asked.

“After sundown,” Malachi said.

Malachi put the call into Simon, who told them to stay put and out of sight. They waited another hour. Using Malachi’s Bug Detector, they got only one ping. A drone, 3 miles away.

“See?” he said. “Too sensitive for its own good.”

They stayed in the shade, talking music, survival gear, discussing the potential fate of the officer, debating tonight’s playlist.

“They’ll never play that one,” Malachi said. “You’re dreaming.”

“Damn. Can you tell me what the shows are like?” Griff asked.

“Your first night,” he said. “You’ve got to see for yourself.”

The alarm cheeped and Malachi grinned.

“Five fifteen. Quittin’ time!”

Slipping out of the cavern, Griff anticipated the slap of sunlight, but shadows of the narrow enclosure stretched like gray taffy. The sky had grown hazy and dimmed to slate.

“That’s a relief,” Griff said, looking through his monocular. “The cop’s gone.”

“Hmmm,” Malachi said. “Never seen that before.”

“Clouds?” Griff asked.

“No,” he said. “That.”

On top of Simon’s tower, the light was blinking blue.