Loss Of Reason, Miles A. Maxwell [electronic reader txt] 📗

Sal Torentino kept an eye on his wife in the craziness through the Chevy’s windshield.

Both their cellphones were still NO SIGNAL at the Utica, New York exit. There was power here, and in the long lines at the three scarce pay phones that seemed to be working, Margarete was still near the back. She had insisted they stop and try to call her mother.

Like many of their neighbors, Sal’s family of four had evacuated Westchester north of the city with the blare of the first siren. Sal was Italian, but he had screamed at his wife and kids for the first time in, well — ever. Trying to hurry them into the car as the Emergency Alert Station played on the car radio. Screeching out of the driveway, down the street, out of their neighborhood to the highway and going — nowhere fast.

What should have taken two hours had taken an exhausting twelve.

People were being turned away at the door of the Denny’s. They were obviously out of food. So were the Torentinos. The sodas and beer, the sandwiches Margarete made for them on the road were long gone. Sal had found some rock-hard candy bars in a vending machine.

Six hours ago.

When he couldn’t function anymore, Margarete had driven. If you could call it that. Jammed between a thousand other cars. Five and ten miles an hour.

A tremendous sense of relief poured into Sal Torentino as the sun came out from under an overcast blanket of gray-white. Thankfully the kids were so tired they were silent, curled up across the back seat, the tops of their heads touching. He smiled. We’re all so beat, he thought. He’d checked every half hour or so to make sure they weren’t dead or something back there. In a minute the sun was gone. Another winter storm coming in.

Across the freeway, people were driving the wrong way — against no traffic — moving a lot faster than Sal had been.

Somebody up ahead laid on their horn.

“Whoa! Looks like they smashed into each other halfway up the ramp,” he said softly.

Then the sound hit him, a series of screams two drivers were throwing at each other. “Clear the goddamned road you two motherfuckingsonsabitches!” another voice yelled.

The accident drivers looked up, turned their heads back to each other.

The door of a black Mercedes immediately behind them flew open. The driver ran toward the two crashers. In seconds, name-calling accelerated into a three-way fistfight. The smaller of the original two dove sideways. The Mercedes driver and the bigger man wrestled each other to the ground. The smaller guy watched while the other two rolled down the snowy slope along the ramp.

“Look, Daddy!” Sal’s kids screamed with excitement.

Dammit! Now the kids are awake!

Sal’s left elbow flinched. A horse walked almost touching the left side of the car, right along the windows. What looked to Sal — the harness blinkers, the odd saddle, he was no expert — like a shiny-red thoroughbred racehorse.

The black tail swished into view. When the beast was farther along Sal could see the rider’s legs. The big man was no jockey, a broad back in an expensive black leather jacket, urging his animal past the brawlers, out onto the freeway.

“Where we going, Daddy?” Sal Torentino’s five-year old boy asked from the back seat.

“Shhhhh,” Sal answered. “Go back to sleep.”

But they didn’t want to go back to sleep. “Where are we going, Daddy?” Sal’s six-year-old daughter cooed.

Sal didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know what to answer. And he didn’t want to scare them. He checked the phones. Margarete was almost to the front.

“Where we going? Where we going?” his son joined in.

They’re not going to stop, are they? Sal realized, pushing his back teeth against each other. Some kind of answer. Quiet them down maybe. “We’re going for a drive.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he’d done.

“We’re going for a drive, we’re going for a drive . . .”

For the next ten minutes the kids chanted like idiot monks.

“Going for a drive, going for a drive!”

Sal finally exploded. “Shut up back there!” He rarely lost his temper. Almost never with the kids. But they shut up.

“Feathee!” Sal’s daughter held up a long feather painted with streaks of dark tan.

“Where — !”

She was cramming her dolls into that yellow tool box he’d rescued from the restaurant.

“Gimme!” said Sal’s son.

“Mine!” his daughter whisked the feather an inch out of his son’s reach. She put it back in with her dolls. The lid slammed.

The toolbox took up the whole of the floor on the side behind Sal’s seat. His daughter’s legs were short enough that resting her feet on its lid probably made sitting more comfortable for her. He’d forgotten all about it. The feather must have been inside.

He recalled the small boat pulling up to tie at the restaurant’s dock. The Middle Eastern man opening the toolbox, releasing that bird — an owl, it looked like — into the air beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The man leaving the box after he ate lunch.

Margarete came back looking more frazzled than ever. “I couldn’t get through to Momma in Rochester, Saly!” She closed her door — “I couldn’t reach Momma! Oh I’m so worried about her.” She frowned at the kids. “Anything happen? Kids okay?”

“Not much,” Sal swallowed. “They’re fine. I’m sure she’s okay. We’ll try again in a little while.”

“She’s probably worried sick.” She turned. “Want to go see Momma Conti, kids?”

They perked right up. “Momma Conti! Momma Conti!”

Rita looked at him, a line down her pretty forehead. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to have us — so happy to see the kids, Saly —”

Sal sighed. “Okay. Daniella’s it is.”

But the freeway entrance was blocked.

Sal carefully snuck his tires up over the rounded curb of the left berm, easing the Chevy partway up the angled concrete. The space on the left was just enough to squeeze their right fender around one fighter as he bumped the other into the bushes.

“Saly!”

“I only nudged him —”

Sal’s big shoulders sagged. He let out a big breath as the Torentinos slid into traffic. Again.

Return To Jersey

Clarence, the Russian and the transit engineer pulled the heavy hook and most of its cable back into the Pelican, tying them with a piece of climbing rope to one of the bench seat supports along the side. They closed the cargo door as far as the lift harness would allow and the freezing wind dropped to a light roar.

Cradled in Franklin’s arms, Melissa wiggled, a secret smile on her face. Fine blonde hair like Cynthia’s. She acted as though she were safe, the most comfortable baby in the world. How long had she been wearing that same night outfit? More than sixteen hours, he guessed. He could smell something going on in there. Not much he could do about that right now. He worried why she hadn’t complained about not being fed for what must have been, what? More than twelve hours?

Since he’d taken her from the cabinet, the only time she cried was when he tried to have someone else hold her. He would only need a moment to reach inside his shirt and pull out the bird. But Melissa would go wild. He felt another brief scamper, claws against his skin. The bird had ducked back inside and it wouldn’t come out either. Wish I could get it out of my shirt.

As they cleared the Hudson River cliffs re-entering New Jersey, Everon breathed a little easier. At least I won’t have to make a water landing. He could set them down in any open field, if he had to, even a golf course, a parking lot.

Noise was increasing, the left turbine’s tachometer needle this time pegging into the red. He knew what that meant — governor’s failing to the high side — a runaway engine. If there isn’t smoke trailing us yet, there will be soon.

He didn’t want to do it — He grabbed the left turbine lever and slid it back to MANUAL. There was no effect. He took a deep breath. No choice at all now. He couldn’t just wait for the right engine to self-destruct. Still, he hesitated, calculating quickly — thirteen passengers. Burned off a lot of fuel. Nowhere near overload. Still have one engine.

He reached over, slid the left turbine control to OFF and cut its boost pumps. Immediately the Pelican began to sink as the right turbine spun down. He compensated by increasing pressure on the collective, pushing the right turbine harder, forcing the helicopter to hold altitude.

In the distance he spotted the eight-story red-brick Med Center, north of the airport. He’d seen their heliport marked on a map. Probably less than three miles, he guessed. Still one good engine.

He adjusted the radio frequency. “Helicopter Pelican Two-Two-Bravo-India, emergency approach for Hackensack Med Center Roof Top Heliport.”

He waited. There was no answer. “Med Center Heliport, do you read?”

As the red-brick building moved closer he could make out another chopper still sitting on the roof! Its blades weren’t even turning!

A voice came back to him. “Uh — Bravo-India we read, we’re closing except to Teterboro high-risk patient transfers. Delay several minutes.”

He couldn’t delay even one minute. Everon veered for the airport.

Much of the space around the runways was occupied by tents. Must be an awful lot of casualties coming in. Then he noticed he’d been unconsciously raising his left arm and the Pelican’s collective with it. “Losing power?” he blurted. He glanced at the altimeter. “A thousand feet,” he muttered