“Then what?” I whisper.
Even without lights, they didn’t do anything more than tap on the windows. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the lights will go out, they will approach, tap, and I’ll just ignore it until dawn. I could tie my shirt around my eyes so that even if I accidentally open them, it won’t matter.
“Smarter,” I whisper.
Right—or maybe they’re getting smarter.
Anything that could figure out how to cut a gas line could surely figure out how to get into the truck, right? If they’re getting smarter and they’re this determined, I’m in trouble.
Makes me wonder why they’re this determined.
I took away Mr. Engel. I flushed them from their hiding place. I brought the police into the matter. It could be that they’re just starving and I’m the only food source around.
The gas gauge is now descending towards a quarter of a tank. I imagine that the fuel is spilling out into the ditch and flowing into the culvert.
Mr. Engel said that they don’t like heat.
From my experience, they don’t like light.
I can extrapolate that they really don’t enjoy…
“Fire.”
PART FOUR:
Redemption
Explosion
(Any doubt is gone.)
Any doubt is gone.
When I roll down the window an inch, the smell of gasoline greets me. This is a really stupid idea. It’s also a really compelling idea. There’s a whole, “Blaze of Glory,” theme to it that I might have picked up from the Mountain of Pure Rock. We had a Bon Jovi block a few minutes ago.
After tearing out a few of the pages, I stuff the notebook into my back pocket.
In my lap, I have the box of matches. I stuck a bunch of matchsticks between the box and lid, lined up like little soldiers.
I open my eyes.
None of this is going to work unless I can see. With the lights on, I’m pretty sure that none of them are close enough to mesmerize me with their eyes, but who knows. There’s nothing to lose at this point.
I see the truck around me and the patch of grass that the headlights illuminate. In the rearview mirror, the red lights show me the general shapes of the dooryard. There are dark forms moving around in that space. I don’t see them precisely, but I see the moving shadows.
I shut off the truck’s engine and click off the radio. I push the keys into my pocket.
All I hear is the summer crickets and dripping fluid. That would be the last of the gasoline. The truck wasn’t going to run much longer anyway.
With the engine off, the light from the headlights is already looking a little yellow. I put the truck into R so the reverse lights come on. The shadows behind me evaporate, parting to the sides away from the new glow.
I roll down the window the rest of the way.
When I shift my weight, I hear the one below the truck. Maybe it’s moving to try to get a look at what I’m doing.
I pull myself through the window and onto the roof, leading the way with the box of matches. I have to work quickly and pray that everything goes perfectly. I have no right to hope. The scheme is outlandishly stupid.
Kneeling on the roof of my uncle’s truck, I ball up the paper and use it to prop the box of matches at an angle, right near the edge of the roof. When the paper burns away, I want the box to fall through the flames, catch one or more of the matches, and allow the whole burning box to plunge down into the fuel-soaked ditch.
My hands are shaking.
I focus completely on the task in front of my hands. It’s almost impossible to see in the ambient light of the headlights. The drifting shadows suggest that there might be several of them out there. It’s hard to tell from my peripheral vision.
The box is balanced precariously.
I’ve forgotten to save aside a match.
With trembling fingers I try to delicately pluck one of the soldiers from the seam of the box and I nearly topple the entire structure. That would have been an epic fail. Losing everything but a single match would doom me. Somehow, everything wobbles and then stays in place.
I take a deep breath—the duration of three imaginary strides—and let it out slowly.
I strike the match against the truck and it hisses to life. The glow reveals the mark I’ve just made on the paint. My uncle was so proud of the paint job on this truck. Even while the frame rusted away, he had washed and waxed the body. The match had made a big white mark. I am about to do much worse.
I hold the dancing flame to the piece of paper until it catches.
The flames grow immediately and I hurry away, nearly falling into the truck bed.
I watch the burning paper as I back across the truck bed and reach into my pocket. Folding the notebook in half, I hurl it as far as I can. I want it to be away from me and the truck. It lands in the darkness just as the box begins to tip. The soldier matches catch too early. They’re going to burn out before…
The box falls over the side of the truck.
I’m not ready.
In my silly plans, I should have already jumped down and started to run by now, but I’m frozen. I’m still convinced that nothing will happen.
Sparks jump from the box as it lands on the frame of the open window and balances there.
It’s not going to
