Blacktop Wasteland(66)

“Should we call somebody?” one of the hoodie-wearing brothers asked.

“Who the fuck we gonna call? Smokey the goddamn Bear?” the driver asked. He was wearing a Washington Wizards jersey. He had long dreadlocks that fell down his back in serpentine coils. Before the first hoodie-wearing brother who had asked the pertinent-if-somewhat-naive question could respond, a pickup truck crested the hill and stopped behind the SUV. All three men spun around and faced the pickup. The driver held his AR-15 down by his side and stepped into the shadows. The driver of the pickup cut the ignition and killed his lights. The driver’s door of the truck creaked open and Kelvin hopped out. He was wearing one of his work shirts with the name patch removed.

“Hey, what the hell is going on?” he asked as he walked toward the men and the car, which was now completely engulfed in flames. The driver, Mr. Dreadlocks, stepped from the shadows brandishing the AR-15. He didn’t point it at Kelvin but he wasn’t letting it dangle at his side either. He held it at an angle across his midsection. Beauregard took a deep breath. He’d told Kelvin he had to really sell it. Make sure he sounded irritated and confused. However, it was a precarious balancing act. If he came off too calm they might get suspicious. If he came on too strong they might just shoot him on general principles.

“Who the fuck are you, man?” Dreadlocks asked. Kelvin made a show of noticing the gun. He backed up and raised his hands.

“Hey man, I don’t want no trouble. I’m just trying to get home,” Kelvin said. He let the bravado and annoyance slip from his voice and replaced it with wariness and fear. Beauregard thought he could earn an Oscar with this performance.

“Turn around and go another way, cuz,” Dreadlocks said. Now he was pointing the gun at Kelvin.

Fuck, Beauregard thought.

He put his binoculars down and grabbed the .45. He aimed it at Dreadlocks. No one said a word. Beauregard could hear the crackling of the fire as it consumed the former luxury car, the hooting of a lonesome owl, the idling engines of the van and the SUV and the beating of his own fluttering heart. The locusts had lowered the pitch and volume of their serenade to nearly imperceptible levels.

Beauregard felt his stomach tighten like a boa constrictor was in his guts. He had two extra clips in his backpack if things popped off. He put his left hand on his right wrist and steadied his gun hand. He should take out Dreadlocks right now. Then take out the Hoodie Brothers. The flames were giving off enough light that he thought he could nail Dreadlocks for sure. The Hoodie Brothers might be more problematic. They were standing in the shadows.

The longer he waited the more likely it was that Kelvin was going to eat a bullet. He squinted but he couldn’t see how much pull Dreadlocks had on the trigger. He was pulling about three pounds of pressure on the five-pound trigger of the .45 himself.

“Look, man, this is the only road that I can take. I don’t know what’s going on and I got no interest in finding out, but I got a fire extinguisher in my truck. If we can put the fire out we can push the car out of the way and we can all go on about our business. And my business got nothing to do with your business,” Kelvin said.

Silence.

“We gotta get down to Winston-Salem by two,” one of the Hoodie Brothers said. Kelvin shrugged his shoulders. The muscles in Dreadlock’s forearms rippled like rigging ropes.

He ain’t going for it, Beauregard thought. He started to rise out of the milkweed and heather on the side of the road.

“Look, my wife already gonna bite my head off because she thinks I’m cheating on her. Let’s help each other out, man,” Kelvin said.

“Are you?” one of the Hoodie Brothers asked.

“Am I what?” Kelvin asked.

“Cheating on her?”

Dreadlocks motioned with the AR-15.

“Get the fire extinguisher,” he growled. Kelvin nodded and jogged back to the pickup.

He grabbed a slim red fire extinguisher from behind the bench seat. He went back to the car, pulled the pin and sprayed down the Lincoln. A whitish cloud of CO2 enveloped the car, dampening the flames. Kelvin had to hit the car three more times before the fire went out completely.

“Let me see if I can put it in gear. Then we can push it. Be careful though, it’s still fucking hot,” Kelvin said. He gingerly reached his hand through the window, taking care to not let his arm touch the still smoking car door. Beauregard had left it in neutral but this was all a part of the act.

“Hey, it’s already in neutral,” he said. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He walked to the back of the car. By wrapping his shirt around his hands he made it into an ersatz oven mitt.

“We all gonna have to push it. It’s a Lincoln. An old one. It’s heavy as shit,” Kelvin said. The Hoodie Brothers put their hands inside the pockets of their hood jackets and took a position on either side of Kelvin. Beauregard saw the door of the van open and watched as an amber-colored dome light came to life. A big beefy brother wearing a baseball cap with a broken bill started to get out.

“Get your ass back in that van,” Dreadlocks said.

The van driver got back in but didn’t shut the door all the way. Eventually the dome light blinked out.

“Hey man, it’s gonna take all of us,” Kelvin said.

“Y’all got it. I got faith in you,” Dreadlocks said. He was still pointing the rifle at Kelvin. He stood between the van and the Lincoln.