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Stickman and Maple’s erratic route was easterly then north, picking up U.S. 40 near Vandalia, Illinois, not returning to Interstate 70 until they were past Effingham. Fiddling with the radio, Stickman searched for snippets of information to help navigate around the wide, hastily tossed up dragnet.
Authorities now say upwards of 400 men, women and children are believed to have been slain in the vicious terrorist attack ...
“Who says the attacks were vicious or the work of terrorists?” Maple countered. “The attacks were the work of warriors, putting it all on the line.”
Authorities believe at least ten men carried out the massacre. Six are known to have been killed and two surrendered. A massive hunt is underway for those still at large ...
“Damn,” Stickman said. “That’s up from three dead. I wonder if Assiri surrendered.”
None of the attackers – dead or alive – has been identified ...
“I’m betting he didn’t,” Maple allowed. “And I hope to hell he took some cops with him.”
We have confirmed that at least four officers died in gunfights with the terrorists. Three were in a helicopter that went down near the interstate overpass where the attacks were launched. Another officer was killed in an exchange of gunfire after he spotted the car in which five of the attackers were fleeing. The officer heroically rammed them with his patrol car, then shot it out, killing two terrorists before he went down. The car fled to a nearby industrial park. There, the driver was shot from a helicopter by a sharpshooter and two of the terrorists surrendered. We’ll bring you more details of the deadly exchanges between law enforcement and these killers as we learn them.
The terrorists at large are believed to be in a dark, late model pickup, but eyewitness descriptions vary. Some witnesses describe the pickup as dark blue, others as black. And it is variously said to be a Ford F-150, a Dodge Ram or a Chevy ...
“That helps a little,” muttered Maple. “But how about some witnesses seeing a red pickup and the ubiquitous white van?”
Authorities now say an officer was killed when he drove his patrol car into harm’s way against the terrorists slaying motorists at Exit 10. No details, but that brings to five the number of lawmen known to have died battling the interstate killers. None of the lawmen has been identified yet.
It’s unfortunate that the massacre was unleashed as responders, including police, were dealing with two other serious incidents in downtown St. Louis. The apartment building fire in which, miraculously, only two people died, and the train derailment had pulled numerous officers off their regular beats, some of which were in the direction of Exit 10. Under normal circumstances those officers would have been able to get to the interstate faster and perhaps prevented some of that terrible carnage.
Investigators speculate privately that two of the attackers – now on the run – were involved in other recent terrorist acts, including the bloody assaults on the Russian Embassy and the Mall of America. So far, no international organization has claimed responsibility for the interstate attacks, leading officials to believe we have again been the victims of homegrown terrorists ...
“I like that, the assault bit I mean,” Stickman said with a grin. “Much more military sounding than ‘vicious’ or ‘massacre’.”
“Well, fine for you, but I’m getting falsely accused in the mall attack.”
Stickman glanced at his partner, not sure if he was joking. “You’re getting much more credit than you deserve,” he belatedly quipped, tuning in another station as a talk show host ended his commentary.
When the ringleaders of these terrorists are finally identified, it will be fascinating to learn what motivates them. Did they grow up in families full of hate for the United States? Are they sons of extremist survivalist parents? Did they have a series of life experiences that they think justify cold blooded murder? Or perhaps they were motivated by learning about Hitler or Lenin or bin Laden. Or maybe these guys just have some loose screws. I say guys, but we really don’t know. The ringleaders of the slaughter on the interstate may be the same killers who attacked the Russian Embassy and Mall of America. Given the scale of today’s slaughter, I can tell you that federal investigators are working on that assumption. Let’s hope these terrorists are brought to justice before they can strike again.
“Have you been brushing up on your Mein Kamph lately, Herr Maple? Or do you just have a screw loose?”
“How about you? Did some bad things happen to you when you were growing up?”
“Bad enough, my friend. More important, I can see what’s going on, see it clear.”
Stickman paused, decided to go ahead. “You remember talking about soon leaving the Banks’ place? I started poking around on my phone and I’ve learned that there are some huge high school football stadiums, especially in Texas.”
“You’re fast, but you can’t get under the age cap, Mr. Stick.”
Stickman ignored him. “Hawaii, Washington State, New Jersey, Utah, they all have big freaking stadiums that hold over ten thousand people.”
“And you’re thinking we should hit a high school stadium?”
“Exactly. It could be bigger than 9/11. This country would come unglued. High school football ranks right up there with apple pie. The stadium I like at first blush is in San Antonio.”
He returned to a website and filled Maple in on Alamo Stadium. Nicknamed “The Rock Pile,” it was constructed of limestone. Best of all, it seats 23,000 people.
A lot of the big stadiums, surprisingly, are in rural areas of the West, Stickman continued. Getting away could be a problem in those wide open spaces, but San Antonio is another story, a big city with plenty to do. Hang out for a couple weeks until things returned to normal, then find a remote place to do the fishing routine. The Ozarks would work.
“You do think big, Mr. Stick. Bigger than 9/11 ...”
Nearing Indianapolis, they debated stopping for the night. Fatigue won out and they took rooms at a cheap mom-and-pop motel a mile off the interstate. With the adrenaline rush of the day gone, Maple’s mind insisted on replaying the horrific attacks as he struggled to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. The bodies. Worse, the body parts. The different scents of charred flesh and who knew what, none pleasant. The wailing and the desperate screams. Fires punctuated by explosions. Explosions settling down to become fires. Twisted vehicles. The tour bus torn apart, clothing from suitcases fluttering across the ground as if to flee the terror. Worst of all, the school bus that he fired on even as long dormant emotions filed his eyes with tears. He thought of his own years riding a bus, the horseplay and laughter, a frustrated driver trying to quiet her thirty-plus charges while watching traffic. In an instant the childhood bedlam of his memory was shattered, substituted by a terrible reality of his making.
All those things – and more – moved relentlessly across his mind, his eyes wide open in the near dark. Stark images pressed upon him in hues black and white and gray. After a while some images emerged through a filter with perfectly square alternating spaces, like a chess or checker board. Some squares were opaque, others not, so at times only pieces of images could be seen floating by. Some flashed by while others bounced gently, overlaying the ugly carnage with suggestive teasing. Closing his eyes turned everything vivid, colors bold and dramatic. No pastels. Then the sights of the day came fast forward, the awful sounds of weapons and explosions and screams bouncing through the cavities of his mind at an unbelievable pace, before abruptly slowing to a crawl that emphasized each broken detail. He couldn’t tell if the tortured lightshow was a nightmare or his mind remembering, but either way it was overwhelming and horrible. With his hands he covered his ears, then covered his shut eyes and even clamped his hands over his mouth to keep from shouting. His erratic motion fed confusion until the colors were pushed out by black and white and gray copies, and even with his eyes open, even with the ugly images blunted by the checkerboard filter, it all was too gross, to vivid, it hurt too much, and he went to the bathroom and sat on the stool with the lid closed, waiting.
Stickman slept fine.