"I'll be back," the Chief said as he scrambledsideways on the mountain of coal.
Murph leaned back in his chair, having nothing to do butstare at the dials on the console. He watched as the needles ebbed, andeventually the hum of the cooling towers ceased altogether. The lights went offin the power plant, and the monitors went black. Murph reached into his pocketand pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He probably should have told the Chiefthat he still had cigarettes, but it wouldn't have mattered. He pulled one fromthe pack and lit it up.
The banging on the door didn't bother him at all. He puthis feet up on the desk, grabbed the FM radio from the console and fiddled withthe channels until he found a station that was still playing music. The only onehe could find was a classical station. He didn't mind this either.
He listened to the swell and rise of the music, turningit up loud to drown out the banging on the door. It was beautiful, he closedhis eyes, took a puff of the cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, as hismind swirled with colors that undulated and moved to the rhythm of the music,brightening with each bang of the drums, slithering with the whine of theviolins. I should have learned an instrument, he thought to himself.
Then the music died. Gone, just like that. It was hisfault. He knew that. The power plant was responsible for well over 60% ofPortland's power, but along the way, it fed all the small towns throughout thegorge. The power was running its last wires, like a river damned up at thesource.
Portland was in for a world of hurt. He'd hate to betrapped in an elevator when the juice ran out. Murph laughed and lit hislighter. On the radio was an ancient tape deck. He pressed the eject button andpulled out the tape cassette. It was white and ancient. Cheap Trick. Helaughed, put the tape cassette in the tape deck and pressed play. He closed hiseyes and refused to open them, as "I Want You to Want Me" blasted onthe radio. Underneath the guitars and drums, the banging outside let him knowthat he was indeed wanted.
Chapter 33: The Pied Piper of Portland
Ace and the boys had lived through an interesting 24hours. They had rolled through the city, collecting refugees, calling out tothem, and picking up cars and supplies. The supplies were mostly junk food andbeer. The cars were mostly hot-wired, hastily brought to life by hischeckered-past compadres during stops. Behind the Turtle stretched a line ofcars, filled with bland, thoughtless people, people who would have rotted intheir homes were it not for Ace and his merry band of liberators. They werehappy to be saved, but should they be?
Behind that line of cars came a different line. The deadtrailed them. They could have lost them easily, but Ace didn't want to lose them,so the convoy moved at a snail's pace. He wanted them to join in the fun. Thiswas going to be Ace's final concert, and he wanted the entire city of Portlandto be there, dead or alive.
Pudge had finished securing the amp to the roof of theTurtle, rigging it with bungee cords and some ratchet straps they had foundunderneath one of the benches in the back of the vehicle. The people in theback of the Turtle smiled at him, as he moved to the side to let Pudge crawlback inside via the turret. They didn't know what he was planning, and even ifthey did, there was nothing they could do to stop him. Ace threw the guitarover his shoulder and mounted the turret, poking his head out to see the ruinsof the world around him.
The sun was going down, and shadows were taking over thecity. To the west, the sun glowed a fiery orange, as it began its descentbehind the hilltops that made up the Willamette Valley, Portland nestled smackdab in the middle. The sky looked like fire. Ace smiled, and felt the buzz of hisguitar building as he turned all of the knobs on the amp up as high as theywould go. He strummed the guitar, and sound blasted through the evening.
Smoke hung heavy in the air. Buildings burned throughoutthe city, and they had stopped combing the streets for survivors. Now peopleran out of their houses upon seeing their convoy. Dozens of cars lined upbehind them, and for anyone that was ready to go, they had plenty of time toreach one of them and board the train to safety... or so they thought.
The Turtle was great for clearing out random cars thatwere blocking the streets. There were times when they had to circle aroundparticularly nasty wrecks, but for the most part, they could just shoveeverything out of the way if they moved slowly.
As the sun disappeared and the shadows overtook thestreets, Ace caught a glimpse of the Rose Garden in the distance. That waswhere they were headed according to Pudge, not to the giant building thatresembled a sleeping headless turtle, but to the squatty building next to it.That was where the government was. That was where the show was. It was going tobe a hot ticket. He was going to blast the gates off the place.
He smiled at the image that was building in his head, animage of chaos and carnage. He climbed out of the turret and stood on top ofthe Turtle. He looked down at the amplifier strapped down on the roof of thevehicle. With his faded Converse shoes planted firmly on the roof of theTurtle, he struck the guitar. The noise was deafening, and his ear drums shookwith the force of the amp, but he didn't care.
He didn't care about anything. He played a song, like apiper of long ago... only there were a lot more than 130 children followinghim, and they were going into town, not away from it.
****
Joan was busy putting salve on a rotund man's hands whenthe lights went out. "Shit," she said, for there was nothing else tosay.
