In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 11

It all happened so quickly that it wasn’t even clear, at least at first, what had happened, other than he’d slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the creature and caused the police car to ram them from behind—like a wrecking ball, it seemed, knocking them forward.

And then there they were, stalled at the side of the road in front of a partially accordioned police car (while parked over an almost certainly dead cat, possibly a rodent) and feeling their necks; even as Coup glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the officer storming toward them—his service weapon drawn.

“Oh, not good,” said Tess, shrinking down in her seat, as Cooper held up his hands and offered assurances. “It’s okay—everything’s going to be fine. There’s nothing to—”

“Get out of the car and get on the ground! Now!”

“Jesus,” said Coup.

“Yeah. Shouldn’t he at least be asking us if we’re all right?”

“Do it!”

They did it, easing open their doors and hurrying to get on the ground, putting their hands behind their backs, making of themselves nice little arrestable bundles.

“Look, Officer, I can explain every ...”

“Shut up! Shut up and stay on the ground! Don’t move!”

They didn’t move—but stayed precisely as they were, their hearts pounding, their blood racing, as the cop keyed his mic:

“530 to Dispatch, request back-up at State Route 87 and 19, collision with civilian vehicle, possible DUI. Over.”

“Possible DUI?” Coup craned his neck to look at him. “Where in the hell did you get—”

“Shut up and stay on the ground! Keep your hands behind your back!” And into his mic: “530 to Dispatch, did you copy? Over.”

But there was nothing, no reply whatsoever, just static—like the Mustang’s AM radio. Coup craned his neck again, this time in the opposite direction: And no vehicles, either. Come to think of it, there’d been nothing since he’d picked up the girl, not even so much as a semi, always so ubiquitous.

He strained to peer skyward, the sun stabbing at his eyes. And no air traffic. No contrails to fuel the conspiracy theorists—nothing. Just a pale, blue dome, without even a cloud.

He froze as gravel crunched beneath the cop’s shoes, half expecting a boot on his neck, but quickly realized the man was moving away from him, not toward him, back toward his car.

“I’m scared, Coup,” said Tess, her voice sounding small, distant. “I’m really scared.”

“I know,” he said, the sweat pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. “I am too. But it’ll be all right. Just, you know, chill, as they say. He’s called for back-up. That’s a good thing.”

“Witnesses,” she said. “Maybe a commanding officer.”

“Exactly. Just hang tight. I know it’s hot.”

“I’ll be okay.” She added: “Thanks, Coup.”

He grunted. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just—thanks. For being here. For looking out for me. Like a big brother, almost. Or a fa—”

“Shht, he’s coming,” he said—suddenly, urgently.

The world just sat, silently.

“But I don’t hear any—”

“Sorry, false alarm. Must have been my own foot, or something.”

And then they waited.

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