It was methane.
It was time for Gary to venture out. To see the site of the eruption. He waited until he changed his cylinder then sought out a means of transportation.
He needed only to walk a block before he found a truck. A fender bender was the cause of the traffic jam, beyond that the street was nearly clear.
The truck door was open, ignition off and the keys inside.
A man holding a phone, lay on the ground to the side of the open door. The front end was dented, but the truck was drivable.
He made several trips from the fire truck to the pick up, taking all nine remaining cylinders of oxygen, that was all he had. If he set it low, he could get about eight hours out of it.
Gary would have to think about what he would do if the levels lasted beyond that. He hoped not and also banked on the knowledge that the gas would dissipate. It obviously wasn’t still blasting from the eruption zone or flames would still be shooting upward.
He checked the sniffer constantly. It didn’t take him long to find the eruption site.
The flash fire from the combustion, flames quickly extinguishing because of the lack of oxygen in the air, rubble, stones, and it covered the street. A bread crumb trail all leading to the large mound of rock and debris that encircled a hole in the ground nearly the size of a half a city block.
Gary stood in awe, carefully climbing the debris to look inside. The last thing he wanted to do was fall and get hurt.
No one was around to help.
The entire area was dead bodies, it was too horrible to comprehend. He didn’t know where to go, what to do. Was there even a safe place?
It took four hours and twenty-three minutes, five cylinders of oxygen before the levels normalized and Gary could remove the mask of his SCBA. He would keep them handy, just in case. At least he knew he had a few seconds warning.
He’d never forget that feeling of there being no air. Nothing to breathe in or out. That sinking feeling in his chest and gut.
Carrying the SCBA over his shoulder, he broke the glass door to a pub, stepping inside. It was the first place he thought about for a television.
The power was still on and he turned on the television.
Nothing.
A blue screen.
He located the remote behind the bar and flipped through channels. It was useless.
After grabbing a bottle of water, he left that bar and headed back toward the truck.
Gary thought about going back to the fire station or the police station. Try the radio there when he heard it.
How could he not.
The town around him had become eerily silent and the slightest noise carried as if blasted through a megaphone.
Standing in the street he heard the high whirling sound. An airplane.
It grew louder and closer.
Gary didn’t need to look to far for it. A passenger plane flew overhead frighteningly low, so low not only could he see the name Blue Horizon, he saw the wheels down. If the landing gear was engaged, someone lowered it.
Which meant someone was alive on that plane.
It was low, it was close. They were landing.
With Salt Lake City International Airport only ten miles north, Gary knew exactly where he had to go.
He hurried to the truck and headed to the airport.
NINE – LOOSE ENDS
Flight 3430 – Salt Lake City, Utah
With almost every fiber of his being, Tom was certain Gabe would be alright, he’d be fine.
Almost every fiber.
There was a small part that worried. Not that his son couldn’t execute the refueling process, but that maybe outside of the plane, everything really wasn’t fine.
Then again, if that were the case, they were all doomed. There wasn’t enough fuel to take off again and the onboard oxygen flow only lasted at most, fifteen minutes.
Tom fussed with the plastic Ziploc bag full of small bottles of booze. He wanted to take one, down it, but knew that wouldn’t help calm his nerves. At least get that song out of his head.
The song became an earworm instantly. Not only did Tom get a sinking gut punch feeling the second Gabe raised his hand, but when he stood up and walked to the front of the plane, bam … it hit him.
“We need someone to go with my copilot, leave through the cargo,” the pilot said. “And get the truck to refuel. If you have any experience in this, please, we need your help. Every minute counts.” He then saw Gabe’s raised hand. “Do you have experience or are you just volunteering?”
“Yes, sir,” Gabe replied. “I worked at Denver International for six years, three of those as an aircraft refueling mechanic.”
Something was said by the captain, but the blood rushed so fiercely to Tom’s ears he didn’t hear it.
He did hear his oldest son when he jokingly said, “If you didn’t volunteer, I was gonna tell them you knew how. Dude … be careful.”
“I will.”
Then Gabe stood up.
‘Billy, don’t be a hero, don’t be a fool with your life’
It was strange how that happened, an old song from the seventies, one about war popping into Tom’s head.
But it wasn’t so much the chorus of the song that caused it. It was the second verse.
The sergeant cried we got to hang on boys. We got to hold his piece of ground. I need a volunteer to ride up and bring us back some extra men. Billy’s hand was up in a moment …
So was Gabe’s, and proud of his son or not. Tom just wanted to vomit.
The
