Bobby Akart - Armageddon

“It’s hard to tell,” said Owen. “Whadya think? Four or five miles to the next town?”

Lacey shrugged. “Probably. Maybe a little more? Plus, there might be some farmer along the way who knows the difference between a radiator and a transmission.” She laughed at Owen’s expense.

Owen stuck his tongue out at his wife in the dark. “Yeah, well, I know the difference between an algorithm and a bitmap.”

“Are we gonna take a look at fixing this thing or not?” Tucker was growing impatient as the inside of the truck began to get cold.

Owen turned and motioned for his jacket. “You wanna help?”

“Sure,” Tucker replied unenthusiastically.

The two McDowell men stepped out of the truck and quickly donned their jackets. Using Tucker’s flashlight to guide them, they lifted the hood of the Bronco and propped it open with a metal rod attached to the frame. Steam came billowing out and quickly mixed with the soot-filled air around them.

Both guys began to cough as they waved their hands back and forth to clear the air. Finally, with the aid of the flashlight, they were able to see the top of the motor.

Sitting atop the four-barrel carburetor was an exposed air filter topped with a polished chrome lid with the name Edelbrock embossed into it. The filter, which was usually white, was black and dented. It had been taking in debris and smoke their entire trip. The trip through the dense, smoky air in Pueblo had caused it to choke off completely.

There was another obvious problem. A hose running from the radiator had developed a crack. Owen didn’t know if the two problems were related or coincidental. Nonetheless, it would need to be replaced.

Owen shuddered as a gust of cold wind swept over them. He carefully reached into the engine compartment and squeezed the radiator hose. The crack grew wider and emitted a little more steam. Radiator fluid was dripping from beneath the truck as well.

“Well, shit,” he muttered as he stared at the engine with his hands planted on his hips. “This is a hot mess.”

“Sure is,” Tucker mumbled his reply. “What are you gonna do?”

Owen looked behind the truck and tried to calculate how far he’d traveled since Pueblo. If it had been twenty minutes or more, even at a brisk pace, he’d have to backtrack six hours or more. He swung around and looked down the dark and empty highway as far as the conditions allowed. It would be an hour, maybe two, until the next town. He shined the light at the engine again.

“Let’s get the tools and take off this hose. I think I just need a flathead screwdriver for the hose. I can twist off the wingnut from the air filter cover with my fingers.”

While he did that, Tucker retrieved the screwdriver. Ten minutes later, the parts were removed, and Tucker was sitting in the driver’s seat while Owen spoke to Lacey through her window.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, concern in her voice. “I mean, we can wait until morning.”

“Honey, it’s gonna get cold and really uncomfortable out here. I can make my way into town in an hour or so and be back before you know it.”

Lacey offered him the pistol. “At least take this.”

Owen shook his head. “I won’t need it. I mean, what are they gonna steal from me? A busted radiator hose and a clogged air filter? I want you guys to be safe until I get back.”

Lacey couldn’t argue with him. She reached through the window and pulled his head closer to hers. They kissed one another and lovingly tapped their foreheads together.

She choked back the tears as she spoke. “Please be careful. Don’t take any chances, okay? We’ll be fine.”

“I promise. I love you,” he responded and then looked into the truck to make eye contact with Tucker. “Stay alert and watch out for your mom. Okay?”

“No prob, Dad.”

With those final words, Owen marched down Highway 50 in search of parts for the truck. He glanced back once and waved to his family. The second time he tried to give them another wave, darkness had surrounded him, leaving him alone.

He saved the battery life on his flashlight and turned it off. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and pulled his tee shirt through the tight-fitting North Face collar to cover his mouth and nose. The ashy smell aggravated his throat, but the face covering helped him stave off the cold somewhat.

Owen tried to walk at a brisk pace. Visibility was low, so he looked down constantly, simply focused on following the center line of the highway. He didn’t expect to encounter any vehicles, so getting run over wasn’t a concern. He actually laughed at one point as he thought about how rebellious he was being.

Then another cold burst actually pushed him forward slightly, causing him to stumble. He shoved the radiator hose under his jacket and ran his arm through the filter so he could keep his hands warm in his pockets. Owen hunched over in an effort to stay warm, looking down at the dual yellow stripes that were starting to get covered by a light snowfall.

The snow began to accumulate, and soon he found himself kicking through it with his sneakers. His pants legs became damp as the moisture began to soak up to the middle of his calves.

Owen began to shiver. The wind picked up and began to emit an eerie howl at times. Then, in the pitch darkness, something happened to the north of Highway 50 that had also occurred in the late fall of 1836. At the time, it couldn’t be explained. If today’s weather watchers had fully functioning instruments, they would’ve been able to tie the rare anomaly to the fires surrounding Denver and the Arctic air pushing in from Canada. However, they didn’t, and therefore what happened next came without warning.

A dark cloud, traveling over thirty miles an hour, descended from the northwest. It was accompanied by a roaring noise that frightened Owen so bad he ran out of the middle of the road, thinking a dump truck was barreling toward him.

Only, it wasn’t a truck.

Within minutes, as the cloud passed over him, temperatures dropped nearly sixty degrees as a flash freeze enveloped him. The subzero temperatures caused any form of moisture on his body or clothing to freeze in an instant. His tee shirt slipped beneath his nose, and the mucus that dripped out froze to the top of his lips.

Owen struggled to run. He was barely able to force his legs forward. Just ahead, he saw a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the road. It had bales of hay stacked haphazardly in the back.

He gathered his strength and pushed the unexpectedly bitter cold out of his mind. He reached the truck and tried to get inside, but the doors were locked. He returned to the tailgate and tried to open it, but it was frozen shut.

His breathing became labored. He was unable to blink, and his eyesight began to become fuzzy. Owen pulled himself onto the rear step bumper and flung his body into the back. Then he did his best to move the hay bales around to seek some form of protection from the flash freeze that engulfed him. He burrowed under the straw, using what was left of his strength to avoid the extreme cold.

He shivered violently. He gasped for breath as he struggled to stay warm. His skin felt like it was burning. He became confused as to where he was and what was happening to him. He had visions of Lacey and Tucker, like watching a movie at thousands of frames per second. Tears emerged from his eyes and then froze.

And then, as if his surroundings weren’t already pitch-black, Owen’s mind found darkness of its own.

Wednesday, October 30

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

“Pa, somebody’s comin’,” eleven-year-old Cletus Munford whispered to his father, Nelson. “He’s walking up the hill.” Young Cletus kept his eyes glued on the person, using the small slat opening underneath the front porch of their home. The light was dim, but the silhouette of the figure that approached could be seen against the rocky driveway.