Black Helicopters (15 page)

“We’re screwed,” says Eric.

“What?”

“A flat, maybe, I think we have a flat. I don’t know. It’s like — harder to steer?”

“Well, pull over and look. What side?” I say. I can’t see anything, but it’s dark and the side-view mirror isn’t set to reflect the tire.

“What if it
is
flat? Then what?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know what. When a tire is flat, you change it. You have a spare, right? So if it’s flat, you change it.”

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, my mom said, if I get a flat I should just call the towing. They’re fast. And it’s safer that way. But we don’t have my phone.”

There are a thousand things I could say to Eric in this moment about his mom and the dumb-ass lazy way of living she is teaching him, but all I say is, “We are going to get out. We are going to check the tires. If we have a flat, you are going to change it.”

The rear passenger-side tire is flat. Not smack-dab, rolling-on-the-rim flat, not yet, but flat. Eric is standing there beside me staring at it like he never saw such a thing before, and I suppose he hasn’t. I suppose it never came up.

“My dad,” he says. “He died while he was changing a tire.”

“He get hit by a truck or something? You don’t have to worry about that tonight. You won’t be hanging your butt out in traffic. You’ll be way over here, on the shoulder, if anybody comes along.” When I say that, the headlights of a car stab us with light for a moment, then the glare slices away and the car blows past us.

“Better hurry,” I say. “We don’t want to have anybody stop to give us a hand. Get the spare. Get the jack.”

Eric pops the trunk and shifts some junk around. He puts his hands on the outside of the tire and tries to lift it out.

“Like this,” I say, and grab the tire by the center. “It isn’t just about being strong; it’s about putting your body in the right place. It’s all about leverage. See?” I say.

“Now we need that.” I point to the jack, which looks like a toy. “And that.” I point to the lug wrench.

“I know,” says Eric. “We watched a video in driver’s ed. I passed the quiz.”

“Well, do it, then,” I say. “You know, if somebody stops to help, I might have to kill them. Make sure you put the jack under the frame, solid. Know what I mean?”

Eric kneels down and reaches under the car with his long, spindly arms. I imagine his fingers crawling around in the dark, exploring and finding a place to fit the jack.

“My dad,” says Eric. “No car hit him.”

“The handle fits in here, like this,” I say. “Now, use the weight of your body. The jack will ratchet up each time. You don’t have to get it real far off the ground or nothing.”

“He just died. It could have happened anywhere. There was a thing wrong in his brain. An aneurysm. It would have happened no matter what he was doing at that moment. He could have been sleeping.”

One of the lug nuts is stubborn, or maybe it’s just that Eric’s boneless hands are weak. “Use the weight of your body,” I say again.

“There was nothing anybody could have done. That’s what they said after the autopsy. Even if we had been right there with him, we couldn’t have helped.”

“OK, now put that spare on. Suck it up, you aren’t even bleeding.”

“There is no way anybody could have saved him.”

“Where are the nuts? If you’re one short, it’s no big deal. They don’t have to be super tight . . . not like
you
could make that happen. OK. Release the jack.”

“Sometimes people just die.”

“Sounds to me like the black helicopters killed him, your dad. Toss the tire in the back. Let’s go.”

“What?”

“Let’s go. You know how to pick up a tire now, do it.”

“Not that. The black helicopters. What did you say about the black helicopters?”

“Those People probably killed your dad. That’s the way Those People work. He was just trying to change his tire, but they saw him there out in the open and all alone. So they killed him. That’s the way Those People work.”

That’s when the lug wrench hits me.

DISPATCHER: This is 911. What is your emergency?

CALLER: Hello?

DISPATCHER: Hi, what’s going on?

CALLER: Please hurry, OK? I’m at a gas station. Listen to me. We need help.

DISPATCHER: We are going to get you some help. All right? We are going to get you some help. I promise. Where are you calling from?

CALLER: It’s the pay phone outside a Loaf’n’Jug on the interstate. Please, just listen. I want to tell you where she is.

DISPATCHER: I’m listening. We’re going to get you help, OK? And what is your name?

CALLER: My name is Eric. Eric Wade. (LONG PAUSE)

CALLER: Hey, can I just tell you everything and go get my brother? I need to go get him.

DISPATCHER: What is your phone number?

CALLER: You mean the phone number here? At the gas station? Or the phone at home? Can you call my mom? Please, call my mom. Tell her I’m gonna get Corbin. Tell her he’s OK. Tell her I’m sorry. He’s OK. He’s OK. (PAUSE) My phone that I’m on is a pay phone. I’ll be at my house, too. I’ll give you that number.

DISPATCHER: We just need the number where you are now.

CALLER: Hey, I’ve gotta go. My brother, he’s scared right now. I gotta find him and get him home. We gotta go home.

DISPATCHER: Eric, please wait. I need you to stay on the line.

CALLER: . . . (unintelligible) . . .

DISPATCHER: Eric, I’m having trouble hearing you.

CALLER: I’m sorry but . . . my brother. I need to take care of him.

DISPATCHER: Is he with you? Is the person with you hurt?

CALLER: I think it was my only chance . . . (unintelligible)

DISPATCHER: Eric, Eric, we need you to calm down a little . . . Eric, I understand, but you need to calm down a little. You said someone was hurt. Who got hurt? Was it your brother?

CALLER: No, her. She’s in the barrow pit. I left her in the barrow pit. I think maybe I killed her. (unintelligible)

DISPATCHER: I don’t understand, Eric. Who is she? She’s by the highway? Did someone get hit by a car?

CALLER: I hit her with the lug wrench thing after I changed the tire. (LONG PAUSE) It wasn’t an accident. I meant to do it. I’m sorry. (unintelligible)

DISPATCHER: Calm down, Eric.

CALLER: It’s the girl that’s been on the news.

CALLER: (unintelligible)

DISPATCHER: Which girl?

CALLER: With the bomb. It was her. Valley.

CALLER: (unintelligible) I’m freaking out. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, all right?

DISPATCHER: That’s OK, that’s OK.

CALLER: I’m sorry, but I think she’s dead. I put a marker near where she is. I used a shark my brother made. It’s mostly blue. I put it on the fence by where it happened, just a little way away. I thought maybe it might be hard to find the place again. Maybe if she isn’t dead you can save her. Please.

DISPATCHER: There is a deputy on his way. He’s on the way, so just hang tight, OK?

CALLER: OK, I will. Will he help me get my brother? (PAUSE) I can hear a siren. Is that them? Thank you. Thank you very much.

I am here. Cold. The air is solid. This is the world so cold that even the snow is dead. This is the world where I am. And it is black dark. I make my eye open, and nothing changes. I am a little frozen eye.

I taste blood. The blood is in the way of my breath. Everything in my stomach pushes out, and it hurts, but it’s warm for a moment. And it’s a comfort, but then the warmth fades away, dissolving in the air, and all that’s left is the smell of blood and acid. And it hurts.

“Got something. It’s the girl.” A touch, a finger on my throat. “Got a pulse . . . Can’t tell.”

The clock is winding down: tick, tick, tick. I am the clock and the clock is me.

“ETA on that chopper? Wait on that to move her, copy. Breathing, air passage seems clear.”

Light, light, so much light. It hurts. It stabs right through and burns all red. Open or closed, the red clot of light is floating. What does it want from me?

“Pupil is responsive. Are you with me? If you’re with me, can you squeeze my hand? Good! That’s good. Yeah, stay with me. She’s conscious. Scalp wounds, facial fractures, blow to the back of the head, could be a neck injury. Ten-four, copy that. Waiting on the med crew. OK. I’m going for a minute. Coming back with a blanket, OK? Squeeze my hand. Good girl.

“Your name is Valley? We’re going to get you warmed up a little. Not long now. We’ll get you to the hospital. We’ll get you safe. You with me, Valley?”

Pock-a-pock-pock-POCK-A-POCK. The helicopter shark slides through time and the sky. Its eye is a searchlight that stabs me, blinds me, then slices away, and returns sharp as a tooth.

“What we got?”

“She’s breathing, responsive. Possible neck injury, so I waited for you. Her name is Valley. You got Code 10 experience?”

“Code 10 trauma? Sure. A bomb? No. We’re hoping we can get somebody on the com.”

Another touch. A hand on my arm.

“Good. Hello, Valley. We need to move you a little bit. Can you wiggle your fingers? Good girl. Your foot? Can you move your toes? Great. OK. Let’s get the collar on and stabilize her neck. Sorry if this hurts. We’ll give something for the pain as soon as we can, promise. OK, let’s move her to the backboard. On three: One . . . two . . . three! Checking her heart . . . The vest is in the way. What do we know about the vest?”

“The other kid says she told him she couldn’t take it off, but there’s no timer, he says. I don’t know if we can rely on that.”

“Check with dispatch. See how long it will take to get someone out here.”

“She can’t wait. The head trauma . . .”

“Get a line running. Valley? Are you with us, honey? Can you help us?”

“Dispatch says it will be at least thirty minutes to patch somebody through who knows what to do.”

“That’s too long. Tell them to be ready at the pad. We’re bringing her in.”

“You sure?”

“We’re going to lift you now, Valley. We’re going to take you to the hospital. You’re almost home, honey.”

Where that smoke is rising, that’s home. My mother and my father, waiting for me. The stars are only sparks. They float into the sky and disappear. I see the future.

“We’re taking care of you.”

The blades on the helicopter slice through time and the sky, the circling hands of a clock, time is going faster and faster.

I have to be brave enough to see this, to know this. My bones and muscles are a fist around my lungs and heart. I can wiggle my fingers. I can move my hand.

Tick, tick, tick.

Time to stop.

Time to touch the trigger on its little dead head.

Time to touch the trigger by my heart.