Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

“It’s Abe. We found him. Peter is holed up in Belmont, Wyoming. I should be there by tonight. Call me when you get this.”

“No answer?”

I handed Anne back her phone. “He’ll call when he gets the message. I hope Leon hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.”

“Worse than being paralyzed by a worm that crawled out of a dead guy?”

“You know what I mean. Leon is Henry’s whole world.”

Anne’s head lolled on the creamy leather of the headrest, and her eyes were closed. “He was stable in the hospital when we left. There’s no reason to think he’s gotten any worse now.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s okay.” I thought of all the wounded and sick I’d known over the last eighty years, and how quickly things could take a turn for the worse. There was no point in shaking Anne’s faith at this point, I just wish I shared it.

We drove northwest up I-25 while the sun slowly turned fat and orange as it fell out of the sky. We were approaching Cheyenne when I broke the silence.

“Anne?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“You’re doing it again. I just told you that I’m going to do this, and you agreed. Now you’re going to try and drop me off in Cheyenne. I’m telling you no. You were perfectly willing to sacrifice me when we started this. So was I. The greater good and all that. Don’t screw it up now that we’ve spent all this time together.”

“That’s not what this is about.” It was, of course.

“Uh huh. Abe, I don’t want to die. I really don’t. And I appreciate all of these attempts to keep me safe, but when I think about one of those pits, full of blood and parts and stuff, with people hanging alive from racks overhead …” She jerked slightly, like an arrested shudder, and looked out the window. “If this Piotr or Peter or whatever is really holding a whole town hostage, then I have to help. I saw that woman in my dream, I was her, and I could feel how scared she was. I’m going to help her, and the rest of them, no matter what. And so are you. And if we die, well, might as well go out doing some good.”

“If you’re going to pay with your life, you may as well buy something worth the price.”

“Who said that?”

“Your grandfather. We were all volunteers, you know. Before every operation, each of us had to agree to go out, just as if it were a suicide mission. Which, you know, they pretty much were. Patrick set the bar for which ones we were going to go on. Of course, with the consequences being what they were during the war, it meant going out on all of them.”

“Then it’s settled. You can’t save those people without me. How do you plan to cover an entire town full of thousands of houses and buildings and roads and farms and God knows what else? It’s a pretty big goddamn haystack, isn’t it? I’m a needle finder, just like my grandfather. Without me, you’re useless.”

Looking into her fierce eyes, I had to smile. “That’s very true.”

She folded her arms and sat back. “Wake me when we get there.”

The sun was just hovering over the horizon when we crossed over onto I-80. A small sign with an arrow that read “Belmont — 31 Miles” appeared on the shoulder without the usual warning of prior signage. I had to brake hard and swerve to make the ninety-degree turn onto the cracked gray asphalt that ran off into the distance.

The main highway soon vanished in my mirrors, leaving nothing but an endless ribbon of worn-out road before and behind us. To my left the sunset was fading fast and the scent of dust was giving way to the first faint tang of cool night air.

“Wow, pretty deserted out here.”

“Probably why Piotr chose it. The more isolated the better.”

Anne spotted the reflective green rectangle first, just as dusk began to settle around us. It said, “Belmont City Limit” and underneath was a smaller sign riveted to the same post that declared, “Pop. 30, 218 — Home of the Wildcats.”

The sign was faded with a pattern of shallow dents across the face. A pretty common sight out in the country, where bored young men would inevitably connect the possibilities of shotguns, pickup truck beds, and targets whizzing by.

She grinned at me and shook an imaginary pom-pom. “Go Wildcats! That was the name of my high school’s team, too.”

“I think every town in America is required to have at least one team called the Wildcats. Were you a cheerleader?”

“Do I look like a cheerleader to you?”

“Every time I close my eyes.”

“Pervert. No, I was never a cheerleader. I would have loved to try out, but Patrick wouldn’t let me. Never a moment to spare from my competition training.”

Streets began to branch off from both sides of road as the town sprouted up around us. “You feel prepared, then?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Me neither.”

The tires plocked loudly as we hit the sunken concrete edge of the diner parking lot where the asphalt road failed to meld with the older town structures. There were a few cars huddled around the squat building, as if they were looking forlornly into the plate glass windows at their owners. The Range Rover stood out sharply among them as I pulled in, the only late-model car in the group, and the only one not covered in dusty grime.

I turned off the ignition, and we sat quietly listening to the engine tick as it cooled. “Hungry?”

“Not really. You?”

“Always.”

“Is it really a good idea to just walk in there? Maybe we should sneak around or something first.”

“In a town this size, strangers stand out like a house fire. No amount of sneaking is going to hide the fact that we’re in town, so we may as well not waste time trying. Besides, I’m starved.”

The sun wasn’t all the way down as we crossed the parking lot, but it was nearly full dark anyway. Heavy bottle-green clouds squatted overhead, stealing much of the day’s last light. It looked like tornado weather. A damp breeze whipped past us, smelling faintly of ozone and swampy rot.

Anne spit. “Ugh, that’s horrible.”

“Probably a water treatment plant close by.”

“No, it’s the other kind of stink. This place reeks. It’s bad.”

“Ah. Well, I guess I’m glad I can’t smell it then. Any bags around?”

“I can’t tell. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Give me a few minutes to get used to it.”

“More food for me, then.”

“If you say food one more time, I’m going to throw up on you. Got it?”

I put up my hands in surrender. “Got it.”

We went in.

The place was ugly. The fluorescent lights overhead didn’t do the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor and orange vinyl booths any favors.

Four tables occupied the middle of the floor, topped with blue-speckled white Formica and surrounded by dull chrome chairs with blue vinyl seats. Booths lined the walls to the left and right of the entrance, and a long counter fronted by revolving stools took up the back wall. Behind the counter was the kitchen. Everything looked hard used and faded. Nobody looked up when we went inside, which surprised me.

Only one man sat at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. He was wearing a denim baseball cap with the bill pulled down low, a brown windbreaker, jeans, and black cowboy boots. His gaze was fixed on the contents of his cup.

Three of the booths were occupied. One of them by four older people, two couples by the looks of it, who were chatting animatedly over dinner and having a good time.

Another booth had a young family with a toddler strapped into a high chair at the end of the table, the parents to each side in the booth. The kid was rubbing mashed potatoes in his hair and laughing. The dad seemed to find it funny, the mom did not.