Things were bad all over, but not in Boardman. Boardmanwas a small town, out of the way, populated mostly by people employed at thepower plant. There had been little of the "mass hysteria" that wasbeing portrayed over the radio. Maybe it was another one of those Y2K situations,a non-issue being blown all out of proportion by the media for ratings. Murphwouldn't put it past them. First Y2K, then that SARS shit, and now the deadcoming back to life.
Murph pulled half the shell off the egg in one go. It wasan omen, a good one. The egg, was part of his daily ritual, one that he haddeveloped over the last year of working in the control room of the power plant.He could tell how his day was going to go simply by peeling his hard-boiled eggat the beginning of every shift. Today was going to be a good day. He leanedback in the chair and brought the cold, pungent egg up to his lips and took abite. On the monitors, everything was golden. It usually was.
Working at the Boardman Power Plant wasn't for mostpeople. For one thing, the town that they all lived in was out in the middle ofnowhere. There was nothing but a few farms, a general store, and a bowlingalley that seemed out of place among all of the power plant workers and theirfamilies. Half the time the lanes stood empty, the only noise issuing forthfrom the bar, where power plant workers, bathed in the neon light of beersigns, swilled beer and traded stories of their glorious pasts, stories aboutloves won and loves lost. They were mostly bullshit, but that suited Murphfine. He had experienced enough adventure as a youth, winding up on the wrongside of life, skinny, broke, and in jail. No, his new life suited him justdandy. He had a book in his bag, some monitors and lights to watch, and asimple lunch. He was stress free and without temptation in the ass-end of theOregon high desert, just the way he liked it.
Murph set the remaining half of the egg down on the papertowel, then he pulled a couple of small plastic containers labeled"P" and "S" from the paper bag on the console. He upendedthem over the egg, watching the salt and pepper dot the yellow yolk. It wasabout as much excitement as he could stand.
He was chewing on the second half of the egg when hisradio squawked to life. "Murph. Get your ass down here."
With a mouthful of egg, he reached for the radio,depressed the button, and said, "Down where, Chief?"
"Down to the cafeteria," the reply came. Murphswallowed the egg, bundled up the napkin with its discarded shell and dumped itin the trashcan for the custodial staff to deal with. This was serious. TheChief was a stickler for the rules. For him to even use a radio and not use thecustomary "over" call at the end of his message was enough to tellhim that. The fact that he was actually having him leave his post during hisshift was a further indication.
Murph looked into his brown paper bag with one lastforlorn look, and then grabbed out a small Ziploc baggie of nuclear orangeDoritos.
****
The tables in the cafeteria were white, and looked likethey had been purchased from a high school. They were the types of tables thathad benches attached, and if extra space were needed in the cafeteria, theycould be folded up and rolled into the corner. But no extra space was neededthat day. The Chief stood between all of the tables. Murph sat on one,wondering what exactly was going on.
"I suppose you all been listening to the news,"he started.
Murph smiled. "You mean all that bullshit they beentalkin' 'bout the dead coming to life?"
The Chief looked at him, dark brown eyes burning intoMurph's green eyes. Murph swiped at an imaginary itch on the back of his neck,blissfully breaking eye contact with the Chief. The stocky brown foreman spokeagain, "I know. I know. It all sounds made up. It sounds like it ain'treal. Well, I got some news for you. It is real."
The other workers laughed nervously. Skinny Tom, coveredin coal dust and grease, said, "C'mon, Chief. Stop pulling our legs."
Murph knew it was real. As soon as he said it, Murph knewthat the Chief was speaking the truth. The Chief didn't have time for bullshit.He didn't play jokes. The next time he laughed would be the first.
"We got word from town. Things are going down.Things like what the radio says is happening. I called you guys in here becausewe have a decision to make." The Chief looked around the room, his eyesboring into each one of the men and women who were assembled.
Murph's mind wandered. He had never been very good atstaying focused on someone talking. Murph imagined an army of coal marchingdown a conveyor belt, rough-edged raw chunks of coal, marching right into aburning inferno to be burnt at a thousand degrees. There was a connectionthere... something deep. Something smart, but he couldn't quite grasp it.
"You there? Murph?"
Murph was jolted out of his own mind by the Chief's deepvoice. "Huh?"
"Jesus," Skinny Tom spat. "Pay attention,Murph. We ain't on no holiday."
The Chief continued where he left off, but Murph was lostnow. He paid attention to his words, hoping that he would be able to glean thegist of what he had missed when he was spacing out. "Now, I know some ofyou got families back in the town. I can't ask you to stay here and keep thefire going for people in Portland while your own families are at risk. But Ican't have all of you go. We got a job to do, and we got to do it."
Skinny Tom and a few of the other men stood up."What are you asking us?" Skinny Tom said, a suspicious look on hisface.
The Chief wiped his hands across his face. "This ishard. I know it is. And I want you to know that I am asking; I'm not telling. Ineed volunteers to keep the fire lit."
Skinny Tom's jaw
