Night of Thunder

He was behind the skirmish line, unarmed. No reason for him to be up front and get himself shot up in the early rush. He wouldn’t venture out until the truck was taken down, the guards either surrendered or murdered. He licked his lips, which were dry, and his tongue was also dry. He pulled a bottle of water out, now warm, popped the cap and slugged some down.

“Go easy, Brother Richard. You don’t want to have to pull over for a piss in the middle of all this.”

Everybody laughed.

“Why, Cousin Cletus, if I do, you hold ’em off while I empty the snake, okay?”

More laughter. That Richard. What a joker.

The minutes dragged on, the boys sat patiently, a Marlboro or Lucky firing up in the darkness, the drift of the smoke through the tented space.

“I see her,” said the old man from out front. “Yes sir, here she comes, trying to edge her way in.”

Richard saw it. The vehicle, technically called a “Cash in Transit” truck, was a Ford F-750, probably from Alpine, the biggest of the up-armor specialty firms. It wore a bank emblem on its flat sides and doors, and was a boxy thing, ten feet high and twenty-two long, with the grace of a milk truck from the ’50s blown up to be a parade float. White, it gleamed in the cascade of lights, the rivets in their grid all over the damned thing cast tiny shadows, so unlike the smooth skin and bright primaries of the civilian vehicles, this big, sluggish baby had texture. Its grill was a meshwork of slots that looked like, but weren’t, gun slits, and if the thing was armored to the hilt at the highest upgrade it could withstand anything-except what the Grumleys had prepared for it that night. Squared fenders, a stout body, everything acute-angled off, vault-like, it was made to convey the impression of invincibility, of a moving fortress atop the upgraded shocks and suspension.

Richard could make out the two doomed drivers, blandly sitting behind the three-inch-thick windshield glass, unaware that hell was about to arrive in spades. The two men slouched, like the others having made peace with the ordeal ahead, and the big thing edged its way down the road from speedway headquarters to the merge with Volunteer. As it advanced, waiting in a line to get in another line, it edged ahead ever so damned slowly. People poured around it, sloshed around it, some even clambering on its bumpers as they progressed, the whole thing eerie in the brownish lights of the vapor-mercuries up above. It demanded respect. Twice, vehicles with better position moved aside to permit it entrance, because it was in some sense magical.

But everything was rapidly collapsing into a phenomenon of lights with no one feature predominant, because there were so many sources of illumination, those merc-vapors up top, the lights from the cars in the various lines in the various lanes, the bobbing strobes of the cop monitors, the overhead fast movers that were affixed to various news helicopters and a police ship or two. Beams cut the air this way and that-was it a lightsaber battle from Star Wars VII: Attack of the Baptist Killer Redneck Hell-Raising Natural Born Killers?-and zones of illumination played on the surface of the clouds of dust or smoke that roiled heavily, the whole thing punctuated by sounds of the America of 2008: cars, kids, squeals, shouts, taunts, laughter. In the scene the humans were insubstantial, almost flickering ghosts and shadows.

“Damn,” said Richard to nobody in particular, “is this a great country or what?”

“Hell boys,” said Caleb, “time to git some.”

“Here he comes. Caleb, you ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“Remember, you move with purpose like you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Remember, not through the windows, we need that bulletproof glass on the way up the hill.”

“Yes sir, Pap.”

“I loves you, son. I loves all you boys, you goddamned brave Grumley boys.”

“We love you, Daddy.”

“Brother Richard, I even love you.”

“Reverend, will you take a shower with me after this is over?”

Grumley laughter.

“Such a Sinnerman,” said the old man.

Now it was Caleb’s move. He stepped onto the roadway with the heavy, lengthy weapon-thirty pounds, fifty-eight inches long-and boldly walked across the lanes, dipping in and out, once waiting patiently as an SUV full of kids pulled by, two in the backseat bugeyed at the unbelievable image of a blond hulk in a heavy metal T-shirt, a Razorbacks baseball hat, plugs in his ears, body armor clinging to his upper torso and six feet of the gunliest gun ever made in his hands. But no one could really put it together. He seemed calm because he was calm. He got right up close to the sluggishly moving F-750, at almost-point-blank range, the muzzle three feet from the steel door, the guards looking lazily not around but up the road at the jammed-up lanes of cars and their blinking, on-again, off-again brake lights that yawned before them, and then Caleb fired.

THIRTY-THREE