The newscaster and weatherman had an exchange of words, but my attention went back to my husband and to the kids.
All I kept thinking was they conversed on the television as if people had to just weather the storm and everything would be alright.
I knew differently. This would be relentless and ongoing.
I stared at Lane who didn’t take his eyes off of the television until the ‘ding-ding’ of the diner doorbell caused me and everyone else to turn and look.
A man staggered in. He held a cloth to his face, and the cloth was bloodied. He immediately stopped and pulled out a chair.
My eyes went to the window, a tractor trailer was parked out front. I had been so engrossed in the television, I never heard it pull up.
Liza rushed over to him. “Oh, you poor thing. Can I get you something?”
“I just need water,” he said. “Please.”
“Were you caught out there?” Liza asked.
Before the man could answer, the bell dinged again, and a woman walked in. She was middle-aged, a little older than Lane. Or so it appeared, she could have just been weather worn. She wore an old eighties band tee-shirt, baseball cap and pair of jeans.
“Yeah,” the injured man replied. “Thankfully she found me.”
“It was luck,” the woman said. “I watched his truck get thrown. That big son of a bitch had the sucking power of a five dollar …” she paused; her eyes went to the kids. “Person of ill repute. I don’t know how it missed me. But it did. It pulled me, it took everything I had to gun it.” She sat at the table with the man.
I stepped forward. “By big son of a bitch, do you mean the funnel that rolled by here an hour ago or another?”
“Hour ago?” she asked. “Sounds about right. Hit us at the state line. You’re the first sign of anything we’ve seen since. Anything standing.”
“Nah,” Skip spoke up. “That can’t be right. Had to be a different one. The border? No funnel I’ve seen travels fifty miles.”
“Maybe it was another one,” she replied. “Chatter on the radio is there’s a lot. A lot of funnels.”
Lane spoke up as he walked toward me, asking her. “Have you been on Forty this whole time?”
The trucker woman nodded. “We have. We had to go off road a few times. Lots a stuff on the highway.”
“So, if you came from the state line.” Lane said. “Going on Forty you went through Wilderado. You passed it.”
I knew what he was getting to. Martin and Rosie were headed to Wilderado.
The trucker woman nodded. “I did. We passed them all.”
The injured man lowered his bloody cloth. “Nothing.”
“What ... what do you mean nothing?” Lane asked.
“Nothing,” Trucker woman said. “Adrian, Vega, Wilderado … everything’s … gone. There’s nothing left.”
.
EIGHT – EMPTY HANDED
It was time to go.
Time to find out where Martin was and if he was alright. At least we had to try.
According to Alice the trucker woman, with the exceptions of a few spots, the road to Wilderado was passable. If she did it in an eighteen wheeler, I could do it in my classic motor home.
But we needed to get it first.
That proved difficult.
Skip sat at a table, his head in a steady sway back and forth. “Six-hundred, thirty dollars and fourteen cents.”
“For real?” Lane asked.
“Yes, that was a tricky job, plus, your wife …” he pointed at me. “Said she’d pay anything and it’s six hundred thirty dollars and fourteen cents.”
“We need the motor home. We need to go.”
“I get it. I do,” Skip said. “And it’s all yours when you pay six hundred, thirty dollars and—”
“Fourteen cents, yes,” Lane cut him off. “I know.”
“I take cash.”
“I don’t have six hundred dollars in cash,” Lane said.
“And fourteen cents.”
Lane kind of growled. “And you can’t take a credit card?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Machine works on electric and even with power you need to be online.”
“Well …” Lane grunted in frustration. He lifted his baseball cap, swiped his hand over his head and replaced it. “Your shop is like something from the eighties. Don’t you have one of those swipe carbon things for times like this?”
“No. And when’s the last time you seen a card with raised numbers?” Skip lifted his eyebrow.
“Look, here’s the deal. We want and need our RV.”
“And you can have it,” Skip replied. “For …”
Lane held up his hand halting him. “Say the amount one more time and I am gonna lunge over the table and deck you.”
Skip smiled. “Six hundred, thirty dollars and fourteen cents.”
Lane nearly screamed, stomping his foot like a child.
“Ha!” Skip pointed. “Thought so. Idle threats.”
“Fine. Right now, everything is falling apart,” Lane said. “Don’t you see that? Money will be worthless.”
“It looks that way.” Skip lifted the keys and dangled them. “It’s fine. You’ll be back to buying your Starbucks in a few days.”
Lane reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, dug in there and set money on the table.
“Is that your rodeo pay from last night?” I asked.
“Yep. I didn’t put it in the ATM,” Lane replied.
I knew what my husband made and I knew the wad of money dropping to the table wasn’t six hundred dollars.
“Right there.” Lane pointed “Is three hundred and seventeen dollars.”
I crinkled my brow, “Why is it an odd amount?”
“I stopped at McDonald’s.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Skip,” Lane said. “I know it’s not the amount you wanted. But you know Martin. He won’t let me cheat you. He’ll make sure one way or another you get the rest. Now be a decent human being, realize I have kids with me, stop being a dick and give me the keys.”
“A dick,” said Skip.
“A dick,” Lane repeated.
Liza nodded. “You are being a dick.”
“Fine. Fine. Because I’m not a dick.” He swiped the money, dropped the keys and pushed them forward.
“Thank you.” Lane turned to
