Free From the Fire V by Kent David Kelly Page B

girder and tire chain instead of from a
flagpole.
    Sophie killed the lights.  She pulled the H4 into the open hollow,
this last bay in the line.  Once she was certain the wind was mostly becalmed
there in the Eye, she opened the driver’s door and got out.
    She almost fell out of her open suit.  She zipped up, slowly,
knowing Silas was watching over her.  No friction, her mind was chanting
to itself.  Engine has to stay on.  Get grounded.  No static electricity.  She
wished she had secured her helmet, but it was too late for that.  She breathed
into her moistened rag.
    She shifted her booted feet, and an aching tingle snaked up her adductor
muscles, further in up her thighs.  She stretched, arced back.  And then like an
idiot, she almost slammed her door shut out of habit.
    You fool, this isn’t some shopping mall.   She looked over her shoulder, left to right, listened.  Smelled
the garbage and the rot of human beings.  That generator sound, the pulse of a
beast beneath the wind, still echoed from what seemed very far away.
    Wind, stench, and darkness.  The feel of the suit, she was slick, a
sweat of fear.  There was the only absence of people.  The aluminum rack of
gassing hoses was overhead, and warning signage.  There was nothing else.
    She turned and opened the passenger door, so that Silas could look
out with his guns.  He was lodged in an awkward position, but he had maneuvered
himself onto his side, so that he could lean up on his elbow and fire out
behind Sophie if he had to.  Indeed, the ARM assault rifle was near at hand and
the pistol was already in his grip, its barrel wavering in the air.
    The mouth of the pistol was very nearly pointing at Sophie’s face.
    “Good God, Silas,” she breathed.  She stepped back.
    “Could have warned me you were opening my door,” he offered.
    “You scared the crap out of me.”
    “Sorry, captain.”  Of all things, he grinned.  He was doing a fine
job, keeping the razor edge of terror from his voice.  “Thought we were just
rolling my window down.  Just doing the best I can.  You’re improvising.”
    “Tell me about it, captain.”  She kissed him on the forehead.  The
gun barrel lowered, he smiled a little longer.
    She thought about taking off her gloves.  She began to, but Silas
shook his head.  She was not about to debate the relative risks of gloved and
gloveless static electricity buildup.  But she did reach in and pull out the
submachine gun by its grip, never touching the barrel.
    “No.  Don’t you hold that.”  Silas’ eyes were wide.
    “What if I need it?”
    “Cord it.  Pocket it.”
    She re-corded the gun and slotted it into her suit’s catchall
pocket, as carefully as she could.  Her hands were free.  She touched the H4’s
frame with all fingers, hoping to ground herself, not having any idea if it did
any good.
    Can’t believe we’ve no choice but to keep the engine running. 
Turn it off regardless?  No, not unless he says so.  What if we never get it
running again?  What if …   Her mind was a
wrecking ground of conflicting thoughts, arguments and calculations.  But
you saw, you saw all the signs.  There might still be people alive out here. 
And what if you need to fight soon, Sophie?  What if you need to get out of
here right away?
    She sighed.  Enough of that.  Focus.  Do what you have to do,
and quickly.
    Looking down into Silas’ eyes for reassurance, finding precious
little there but fear, concern, fragility, Sophie nodded.
    “Let’s do this now.”
    She surveyed the immense and girdered rack of seven hoses, their
stout tubes coiling up toward the bay’s arcing ceiling and lost to shadow. 
Some were blood scarlet, others brown.  Each had a different fuel grade and
some of these meant nothing to Sophie at all.  The largest hoses were so bulky
that each had a double-fisted grip clasp clamped onto its throat by steely
bolts.
    All the way past Loveland, since the untouched gas station