Authors: Sharon Woods Hopkins
Killerwatt (21 page)
“Look, there’s power here!” Woody shouted as they
raced past the Benton exit. The McTruck stop was ablaze in artificial lighting.
A quarter mile past the exit, Woody asked,
“Shouldn’t you have stopped for gas?”
“We’re good. Still have a quarter of a tank.” Rhetta
desperately hoped she wasn’t lying to Woody. The gas gauge did read one-quarter,
and it had always been accurate. Maybe she should’ve stopped for gas. She’d
debated that long before Woody had spoken. She decided not to. Their window of
time was too narrow to risk stopping for gas. There were no time outs left in
this game. She’d have to run with the ball.
She’d prayed they’d have enough gas to get them
another ten miles.
“Ten more miles, Cami. You can do it,” she
whispered.
“I heard that. Are you going to run out of gas?”
“No, WE are not going to run out of gas.” She hoped
she sounded more confident than she felt. “We’re coming up to the exit now.”
Woody unhooked his safety belt and reached for the
rifle. When he didn’t refasten his belt, the safety buzzer that Ricky had
insisted on installing began its angry notification.
Rhetta knew better than to advise Woody to buckle
up. Neither she nor Woody was sure what vehicle to watch for. Her gut told her
that they and a vehicle belonging to whoever was behind this were probably
closing in together. If anybody started shooting at them, Woody would need to
aim and shoot quickly. He couldn’t waste time unfastening his seat belt.
Woody checked the rifle. “Ready,” he said, his tone
all business. He propped the weapon butt-down alongside him, near the door.
He ran his free hand over his head.
A football-sized knot began forming in Rhetta’s
stomach. With the football came the sour taste of bile. Her gut, along with the
rifle, had locked and loaded.
Traffic was moderately congested around the exit.
The stores and hotels were open for business as usual. People were moving
about, seemingly oblivious to the problems their neighbors were experiencing
just a few miles north of them. Rhetta followed a pickup truck off the
interstate and down the exit ramp. It turned east. As did she. For an instant,
she wondered if that truck carried the terrorists.
“I hope that highway cop sent out an all-points
bulletin on me,” Rhetta said, pulling out to pass the truck. “We’ll need help.”
Woody grunted. “What for?”
“It’s just you and me and one weapon. Don’t you
think having the cops with us would be pretty helpful?”
“Don’t count on any cops arriving like knights in
shining armor to help us. Especially from that dumb rookie who didn’t believe a
single word you said.” Woody jerked his thumb in a backward gesture. “That guy
probably thinks he’ll look like an idiot if he summons the troops to apprehend
you at a remote power substation, and you aren’t there.”
“But we will be there.” She shot past the truck.
“He doesn’t believe you. No way.”
“Thanks a lot, Woody. You’re a real downer, you know
that?” She checked her side mirrors. The truck she’d just passed grew smaller
and smaller. No other vehicle appeared.
“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I’m
realistic. We’re on our own out here, like we’ve been from the beginning.”
“He’ll have to report that I ran off from a traffic
stop. This car is rather distinctive, in case you’ve forgotten. He won’t want
me getting away with driving off.”
“All he’ll do is hold your license and issue you a
ticket. You’ll have to go to court and explain to a judge why you drove off. At
this point, that cop is irritated at you and could care less.”
“Dang it, Woody, it’s
couldn’t care less
. I
wish you’d get that expression right.” Rhetta pounded the steering wheel in
frustration.
Woody wiped his head. “Whatever.”
Then he peered through the windshield and pointed.
“There’s Highway O, coming up on your left.”
By the time he said it, Rhetta had passed the road.
She squealed to a stop, did a u-turn in the middle of the road. Through a cloud
of dust, she slid a right turn onto O highway. It was an even narrower two-lane
road than the one she’d just left.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” Rhetta lamented.
Woody ignored her complaint. “How far is the
substation from here?” he said, and reached for the rifle.
“From what I remember, it’s about two or three miles
down O. We should be able to spot it easily.”
She floored the Camaro and rocketed down the dark
country road.
After six or seven minutes without spotting the
substation, Rhetta skidded to a stop. “We should’ve come up on it by now.”
Throwing the car into neutral, but without turning off the car, she opened the
door and stepped out to survey the area. She’d been able to drive at least
sixty along the narrow flat road. According to her quick calculations, five
minutes of driving should have put them at, or at least near, the substation.
Staring through the darkness, she was barely able to
discern trees, pastures, and hayfields. She and Woody were far enough out in
the Scott County countryside that there were no houses, no buildings of any
kind, and especially no substation. She inhaled the sweet smell of newly mown
hay. The blue darkness of the night enveloped them. For a moment, she feared
that they had ultimately been too late, that the power was off here, too. When
her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she spotted a soft glow on the horizon.
She leapt behind the wheel just as Woody had hand on
the door handle. She shifted Cami into first and stepped on the accelerator.
The momentum knocked Woody back into his seat. “You
could warn me before you kill me,” he said, groping for the rifle. “Luckily, I
didn’t have the door open.”
“Hang on,” she said. They topped a small rise.
“We’re there.”
She heard Woody’s sharp intake of breath and saw his
body tense.
Upon arriving at the glowing area she’d seen on the
horizon, she identified numerous large rectangular masses enclosed by a chain
link fence. The bright oasis was an island in a sea of dark fields. The
substation.
Rhetta sped past it, barely slowing.
“Why aren’t you stopping?” Woody twisted around to
look behind as they flew past.
“We made it here ahead of them. Let’s find a good
place to stash this car. We’ll walk to the substation and surprise them when
they arrive.”
She spotted a turn-off into a field. She slowed and
steered carefully across twenty feet of ground with deep tractor ruts into a
recently mowed field. The farmer had baled his hay into huge round bales and
had stacked them three high along the road. Most cattle farmers preferred the
six feet high, seven to eight hundred pound round bales, since they were easier
to feed to cattle and could be stored outside all year. They also provided
perfect cover.
Rhetta tucked Cami in close behind the bales. She
was sure no one could see the car from the road. She turned off the motor,
killed the lights. She and Woody sat a moment in the dark, in silence. She
heard Woody breathing softly.
“Are you ready?” Rhetta whispered.
“Let’s do this,” Woody answered. He grabbed the
rifle and threw open the passenger door. He sprinted off.
Rhetta yelped from her injured ankle as she hobbled
along after Woody across the uneven field. Woody paused to wait for her. A few
more steps put them on the solid paved road.
The oversized clown sneakers slapped the pavement as
Rhetta hoofed it alongside Woody. Eyeing her footwear, Woody said, “Is that
another fashion statement?”
There was enough ambient light glowing from the
substation that she was sure that Woody caught her glare this time.
With nearly 200 feet to go before reaching the
substation, Woody pointed to an oncoming SUV topping the rise. Rhetta shouted,
“It’s them! Duck!” and launched herself into the road ditch.
Woody dove in alongside her. A layer of drying mud
lined the bottom of the shallow ditch. Rhetta glanced at Woody. He lay on his
stomach, chin up, one hand holding his weapon out of the goop. His face was
speckled with mud particles. With his other hand, he carefully removed the
miraculously unbroken Heineken bottle from under his abdomen. He tossed it
aside. Stale beer trickled down his arm.
Rhetta had flopped in on her belly and plowed
through mud and stinking McDonald’s wrappers and a crushed cigarette package.
She spit out the package. Seeing it triggered an urge for a smoke.
Woody grabbed a handful of clay mud and smeared it
across his face.
“Camouflage,” he said.
When she began to do the same, Woody shook his head.
“No need. You’re already covered. All I can see are the whites of your eyes.”
The SUV slowed when it reached the substation. It
pulled in to the gravel drive and turned off its lights, disappearing in the
backlight from the substation.
“They’re here,” Rhetta whispered. Her stomach
knotted.
Woody leapt out of the ditch and ran toward the
substation. He’d vanished by the time Rhetta had sprung to her feet and began
limping after him. She scurried up the drive and skidded to a stop when she
heard shouts followed by gunshots, and witnessed bursts of gunfire coming from
two or three different directions. There were too many shots to count. The
staccato reports reverberated through the night air, sounding to her like they
came from the back of the substation. Near the transformer.
Throwing herself to the ground again, Rhetta flung
her hands over her head. Her heart hammered with the rapidity of machine gun
fire. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Where was Woody?
What was happening? Was he okay?
Ten seconds, then twenty passed, with no more shots.
Rhetta dared raising her head. The substation lights were still on. Woody
must’ve stopped them. But where was he?
Rhetta stood and strained her eyes to see into the
darkness. She still couldn’t find Woody. She crouched low and moved to the east
side of the substation. She stared into the glare of the sodium vapor lights mounted
on poles at the corners of the chain-link fence that surrounded the substation.
The lights pointed toward the front of the substation and bathed the area in an
eerie orange glow. Ducking under the light beams allowed her to glimpse the
area behind the substation. No lights shone back there. Rhetta stopped, waiting
for her eyes to adjust to the dark, praying she’d catch sight of Woody.
The silence was as deep as the night was dark. Not a
tree frog belched or whippoorwill called.
A loud crackle of underbrush startled her. She
ducked low when she spotted a man in black clothing, inching his way toward the
rear of the substation, toward an SUV. She couldn’t make out much detail from
his dark form. He carried something bulky. Was it Woody? Then the shadowy form
passed under the lights. It wasn’t a single man carrying something. There were
two, and they were carrying something between them. The terrorists. Her pulse
raced. Her head began to sweat. Where the hell was Woody?
Frozen in place, praying they wouldn’t hear her
breathing, she breathed shallowly, afraid that each inhalation would give her
away. Since the substation lights were still ablaze, they hadn’t succeeded in
taking the substation down—yet. Was Woody all right? And where were these two
going?
A low moan startled her. It came from the brush. She
froze. She peered in the direction the sound came from. The dark yielded
nothing. She squinted and gradually was able to discern a shape. The shape she
fixed on became Woody. He lay on his back, his rifle by his side.
She scrabbled over to him and whispered, “Woody, are
you hurt?” Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Praying the two men hadn’t heard her, she scanned
the area where the terrorists had just stood. The SUV was still there but the
men had disappeared.
“My ankle. I think I broke it when I fell,” Woody
whispered and pointed to his right leg.
His foot was turned completely backward. She gulped.
Woody had to be in serious pain. “Did you shoot them?”
“I got two of them. They’re down.” He tried to adjust
his position.
Two men down? Then how many were there? She’d just
counted two walking.
“Are you sure? I just saw two men, Woody. They
weren’t down.”
“Two men started shooting at me and I returned fire.
The two I shot are definitely down. Not dead, but down.” He pointed. “They were
on the west side, over there, when I came up on them.
She felt woozy. She needed to help Woody to stand.
There were two more bad guys to catch. “Can you walk if I get you up?”
“No, leave me here. You have to stop the others.
Take my rifle.” He propped himself up and thrust the Browning at her.
She grabbed it and examined it, weighing its feel in
her arms.
“Stay low. They don’t know you’re here,” Woody said.
“You can surprise them. I don’t have many rounds left, only the four in the
chamber. I used up a lot of ammo, wanted them to think there was more than just
one of me. If you have to shoot, make every shot count.” Woody lay back. He
moaned softly. “Don’t forget about the recoil,” he added.
At first, the weapon felt awkward in her hands.
She’d shot plenty of targets with her personal .38 and was a good shot. Mostly
what she shot was a cottonmouth snake or two that bothered her while she
fished. She’d never shot a rifle before.
Nor had she ever been hunting. This, her first hunt,
was a manhunt. As she inched away, leaving Woody in the brush, she tried to
remember all the safety warnings she’d heard about carrying loaded guns. Like
not pointing them at any of your own body parts.