SUMMATION (3 page)

            He looked up at the cook. Unlike the
traditional dirty white T-shirt and stained apron, he was dressed in blue jeans
- not the washed out-light blue with white threads showing kind, but the old
dark blue kind, and a dark colored - black? Charcoal? Hooded sweatshirt, almost
blending into the deep tones of the kitchen and the dark-stained grill. A
black, greasy grill.

The grease ran down the wall in the heat, making its way
back to the grill from whence it had started.

            No one answered. He looked around again, behind
him, and the old man in the booth (old man?) looked back at him, saying
nothing. He quickly turned back around, looking down at the milk in his hand.

"YOU WANT MUSHROOMS WITH 'DEM BAGELS?" the cook
demanded, even louder, still not turning. A little laugh, forced, more like an
inside joke between himself and the man in his mirror. A little menacing. He
was a big man, after all, at least from the back.  Come to think of it, he hadn't
seen his face yet.

            No answer. Puzzled, and not just a little
concerned, the man turned again. No girl, no old man. Now, a dog sat in the
seat, looking at him. The dog opened its mouth and spoke.

            "He's beginning to make me anxious. How
about you?"

            He turned quickly back around, looking down at
the tomato juice in his hand. Looking up, the room was darkening. He glanced at
the window. No, still bright outside. He looked back at the grill. The entire
back of the grill was in motion, grease running down, then over, getting
blacker, darker. The wall itself seemed to be moving, to be alive, grease
oozing from its very pores. The man looked away.

            "YOU'RE GONNA GET SOME MUSHROOMS ON 'DEM
BAGELS!"

            The man turned back and jumped - the cook was
no more than three inches from his face, grinning. Grinning, like the cat with
the canary. Or more like the Cheshire cat. For he couldn't see his face,
although inches away.  And the grin, if that was what it was, was darker still
- an inky black crescent on a greasy black background, with a putrid stench
emanating. And that laugh
...

            He woke, and quickly sat up. He was covered in
sweat, though the room was cool, some might even say cold. He was alone, as
always.
Mushrooms?
A little disoriented for a moment - unfamiliar
surroundings.
Bagels?
He got his bearings as his vision cleared.

            Not his first nightmare.

No, they were pretty regular now. It was getting hard to
get any sleep at all these days. Or should I say nights? No matter, same either
way. He was almost down to cat-naps throughout the day.

            Slowly, he slid one, then both legs over the
side of the bed, pausing.

Time to get started again.

August 23
^rd
,
4:00 p.m.

            Tom McGarret was almost home. He and his wife -
still hard to get that concept down, having been married only 2 days, 20 hours,
and some minutes - were returning from a poor man's honeymoon in the Wisconsin
Dells. The trip back home to Illinois was a short one - no more than a couple
of hours. 1-90 is a quick drive, as long as you watch for the Wisconsin
troopers, parked between the north and southbound lanes, low in the grass, like
a cat waiting to pounce. He'd already been the mouse, and lost the better part
of a week's pay a few years back (not much to begin with) for twelve miles
over, so he watched his speed carefully here near the border, keeping it right
at four miles over the limit- no more, no less.

            Being careful today wouldn't help.

            If Tom was the mouse, Bob Ellingston was the
cat. He had been a trooper for twelve years. By this time, running radar near
the Illinois border was kind of a game - would it be an Illinois resident on
their way home, or an Illinois resident on his way up on vacation? Unless they
were blatantly reckless, Wisconsin drivers pretty much got a pass. Besides, he
thought, most Wisconsin drivers drove so slowly on the Interstate all he could
issue them were parking citations.

            "Mom-
Jodie's looking at me again!"

            "Jodie,
just look out the window, and leave your sister alone. We're almost home. Can
you both just sit there for ten - that's all - just ten more minutes? We'll be
there by then." Bill Foster's voice was surprisingly reasonable
considering this had been going on for the past hour and a half, ever since
they left Noah's Ark in the Dells.

He hadn't noticed that he had been following Tom McGarret
all the way home from the Dells.

            He
also didn't know he wouldn't be home in ten minutes.

            Gripping the wheel tighter, Hans Richter was
looking ahead down the road, not at Bill Foster's bumper-sticker laden wagon,
nor at Tom's car, nor even at the trooper. He was looking for a turnoff with a
store. He had just missed the one in Beloit - tried to pass another car, and
couldn't get back in the right lane before shooting past the turnoff.

            German by nationality, he was attending UW
Madison. In fact, he had spent most of his eighteen years in the U.S., and,
like the others around him, was familiar with the road. Unlike the others,
though, his plates said Wisconsin, and he was on his way to Chicago. His
headache was splitting - must be one of those migraines they're always talking
about, he thought. His eyes hurt to open in the bright sunlight, but he did see
a turnoff coming up in just a few miles, just over the Illinois border. He
continued to drive with one hand, squeezing his head with the other.

He felt sharp pains shooting throughout his head, and felt
blackness cross his eyes, interspersed with short periods of clarity. He was
beginning to become nauseated from the pain.

            His
headache would get worse.

            Tom
McGarret signaled left and started moving to the left lane around a semi, owned
either by "DLS TRUCKING" or by "Wash Me" - it was hard to
tell, though "Wash Me" was clearer.

The trooper noticed the semi from across the highway, and
the car passing it. Illinois plates, but within the limit. No prize there.

            Then,
for no apparent reason, as if in slow motion, the back half of the semi started
to sweep across the lanes, as if it were a hockey stick about to launch
McGarret's car into the net.        Tom caught the motion out of the corner of
his eye
,
and tried to accelerate, to stay ahead of the truck's swinging
trailer, but his car, too, almost simultaneously began the same motion, and
lost its grip on the road.

            The trooper, never taking his eyes off the two
vehicles, realized what was about to happen, and reached automatically for his
radio, keying the handset as he brought it up to his mouth.

"Dispatch, Baker Thirty-Two..." He stopped mid-sentence,
with the mike's button still depressed, mouth still hanging open, as he saw the
two vehicles begin to dance, literally. Both vehicles began a slow rotation
around each other, both lifting up almost vertically, on end, as if both had
begun climbing a steep, turning, invisible hill, headed straight up.

            Bill Foster saw McGarret's car, just ahead of
him, begin sliding sideways, with the truck wrapping around behind him. Stepping
on the brake, he looked for a safe haven, some direction to turn to avoid the
inevitable accident ahead. He saw the trooper in the median, but knew he could
avoid him. He turned the wheel to the left, gently, not wanting to lose control
or go into a skid himself. Reflexively, he glanced in the rear view mirror, and
saw several vehicles closing in.

It was going to be close.

He edged over, trying to get onto the shoulder, slowing
before hitting the grass, but nothing happened. Puzzlement turned to panic as
his car began to slide, to follow McGarret's into a slide. The car disregarded
his frantic attempts to steer onto the median. Stomping on the brakes, he
expected a long, screeching skid, but again, nothing. His full weight on the
brakes, turning the wheel both left and right, it was as if the car was
floating, totally out of contact with the ground.

            Which it was.                                                                         

            Tom was the first to realize it, as his car was
the first to nose up toward the sky. To his left, through the window, he saw
the truck do likewise. A moan slowly escaped from his now very tight throat,
constricted almost as tightly as his white knuckled hands on the wheel. A low
moan, but enough to wake his young wife. Groggy, she looked up, seeing nothing
but sky through the windshield. Quickly looking over at Tom, she saw the truck
through the window, as she was pushed back into her seat. Her disorientation
now complete, her arms flailed out, trying to get a grip, to keep from falling
over the back of her seat into the rear of the vehicle. Unlike Tom's low moan,
her screams could be heard clearly outside the car.

            If anyone had been listening.

            Bill saw Tom's car rise up ahead of him, beginning
a spiral dance upwards along with the semi. Like Tom, his control of the wheel
and brakes had long since been lost and he felt the station wagon, already
slipping along, begin to rise, front end first as if it were a plane departing
a runway. He heard both girls calling out in back.

            The girls felt the odd, skidding motion, and
reached out to steady themselves.

            "Dad? DAD!!?" Both yelled out
together, unable to see what was happening in front. Behind them, they saw the following
driver pull his face forward, toward his windshield, and look up over the girls'
vehicle, trying to see something high above them. Jodie looked at her sister,
whose panicked look mirrored her own feeling. They both felt the car sliding,
shifting sideways...

            They both sensed they were about to hit
something. Jodie's sister clutched her shoulder harness with both hands,
squeezing the nylon band with a death grip. Perhaps a poor choice of words. Jodie,
who wasn't wearing one, reached out, stabilizing herself against the back
window, her left arm hooked around the back of her seat, trying to see what was
happening in front. Puzzled, she saw nothing through the front windshield or
side windows, but felt the car tilting and lifting. Her arm, wrapped over the
back of her seat, was all that kept her from falling backwards as the car nosed
up. Both girls looked out the rear window, out to the other, no,
DOWN
to
the other car. The younger Foster felt herself pressed against her seat belt as
they saw themselves rising up, away from the ground, in a surrealistic view not
unlike that of a rocket departing the Earth, rising and turning. Jodie looked
back at her sister, now white with fear, speechless.            Losing the grip
of her left arm, Jodie fell against the rear window, and the tailgate glass
gave way.

            The girls were still locked, eye to eye, when
Jodie went through the crumbled glass, falling back towards the earth. Too
stunned to scream, both girls reached for each other, a touching, if futile
gesture, as she continued her fall.

            She would have fallen all the way down, but the
Foster's car wasn't the last to be captured in this vortex. Another, possibly
more, followed, and began climbing as well. Jodie's fall was broken as she crashed
through the windshield of the car following.

            Unfortunately, in addition to breaking her
fall, it broke her back and neck as well, and she died still not understanding
why her car was in the air, leaving her behind. Her eyes remained open, still
seeking her sister. A family now separated.

            But not for long.

            The vehicles all began to rise further into the
air - fifty, sixty, now nearly a hundred feet up, spiraling. Nothing but clear
sky directly above them; this was no tornado. For a moment, there was silence
as the engine went off, and with it the radio and air conditioner. In that
sudden moment of silence the panic of both Foster parents gave way, at least
momentarily, to a sense of awe, of wonder, at the mystery of their ascent into
the heavens. A fear so palpable they were unable to move, unable to scream,
unable to breathe. Then, as if at the apex of the American Eagle, that great
old wooden coaster at Six Flags in Gurnee, there was a pause, and their
stomachs caught up with the rest of their beings. In fact, the stomachs
continued forward, or at least their contents, as the windshield was suddenly
sprayed by both front occupants.

Their climb ended.

Their courses suddenly reversed, everyone was suddenly and
violently dropped, no,
thrown
down, totally crushing two following
vehicles (authorities didn't realize there were two more cars under the truck
until many hours later, when the road was finally cleared, and the vehicles cut
apart to haul away). Two more vehicles, watching the dance in the air, had had no
time to stop when the truck and its dancing partners were thrown in front of
them.

Although they were traveling only sixty five miles an hour,
it seemed they must have passed the sound barrier- both piled into the mountain
of metal before any of the occupants had time to scream.

            The Fosters were reunited.

            The McGarrets, previously just behind the
Fosters, were now just below. Ironically, it was as the pastor had told them
just a few days before.

Under the crushing impact, the two McGarrets became one,
inseparable, one body, and one flesh, and no man would ever be able to put
that
asunder.

            Then, from the suddenly empty sky, it began to
snow

* * *

           And it snowed,
hard
.

* * *

           The trooper tried to call in the
accident
,
or
situation
, or
event
, or
whatever it was - but could not get any radio contact. No one on the regular
police channels, none at dispatch, none on the Illinois State Police frequency across
the border that he monitored, not even on the Channel 9 CB channel he followed.
     

     And then the car died.

* * *

           Silence.

           He tried starting the car, but nothing. No
light, no starter, no nothing.

           Again, and the same result.

           One more time, and this time it caught. As the radios
each began powering up, they began non-stop transmissions.
EVERYONE
was
on the air. One person would start to transmit, and another would cut them off.
There was a squealing sound as some trucker with an illegal, over-powered
transmitter blasted over anyone and everyone on the CB. Wherever a voice wasn't
screaming over the radio, a severe static filled the gaps. The sudden cacophony
brought him back to reality, back to his senses, and he reached up and quickly
turned off the CB, then turned his squad radio down, almost off. He heard a
muffled WHOOOMP, and looking up from the radio, saw a fireball rise from the
wreckage, climbing back to the sky where all this had begun.

           Again, it became silent, except for the crackle
of the flames. There were no moans from the wounded, no screams from the
trapped or burning. Thank God. He could only imagine the horror had someone
lived, trapped below, surviving the fall just to be incinerated like this. He
prayed that that was so.

           He watched, stunned, no different from the other
onlookers. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. There was little else he could do.

           Although it seemed to be forever, it was
actually only a minute or so before everything began returning to normal.

           NORMAL?

           He moved closer to the wreckage, edging across
the median. He didn't bother getting out of the squad. Traffic was lined up
behind the wreckage, but there was no honking, no one trying to squeeze by. Even
if there had been, he wouldn't have noticed. Those in the cars immediately
behind stayed where they were, frozen, stunned. Behind them, more cars were stopped,
more arriving. Drivers began climbing out, trying to see what had happened.

           What
had
happened?

           How many dead? The fire raged, and his mind
raced - a semi and car, no, several cars, spinning up into the air, then this
burning wreckage. He sat there stunned, unable to move - not that moving would
help - everyone there was way beyond anything anyone in this life could do. Slowly,
he opened his door and stepped out. In the back of his mind he heard the radio
calling him, but it seemed so far away. He stood, leaning on the door, knowing
he was supposed to do something,
anything
, yet knowing there was nothing
he could do. He stood there, frozen.

           "Unit 26, District 12, 10-97?"

           He continued staring, oblivious to the radio.

           "Unit 26, District 12, 10-97?"

           "Any unit near Unit 26, I-90 Beloit, that
can head that direction?
"

           The radio slowly cut through the fog, sending in
little slivers of consciousness.

           "Unit 26, District 12. Unit 26?"
       

           He finally heard the radio. Blinking several
times, he looked around. Fire, thick, black smoke, cars everywhere.

           Time to take charge. Time to deal with the
situation. The
event.
 Time to help the survivors. Yea, right. What
survivors?

           He climbed out of the squad, opening the trunk
to get some flares.
Traffic was going to be tied up for a while,
he told
himself. He almost laughed at the understatement.

           Almost.

           Flares in hand, he slammed the trunk shut, and
turned back towards the wreck. He had taken perhaps three steps when the first
flakes landed on him.

           What the hell?

           He looked around, then up, and saw it. Snow,
coming down hard, all around. SERIOUS snow - it was
SNOWING
! Out of nothing,
a truck and some cars had flown into the air, crashing back down, and then it
started to
SNOW,
in the middle of a hot August day
.
What
IS
this?

           What the hell was going on?