Chapter 3: For He is like a refiner’s fire

The USA Road Atlas was dog-eared, foxed, bent, scraped, stained, and out of date, but Lucy figured the interstate highways were basically the same. She drove the van East on 84 and 90 for a bit, then headed South, staying at Walmart parking lots, cheap RV camps, and State parks. PAL personalities discussed global climate change, and its relation to corporate capitalist hegemony. What about legislation? No, Congress had proved time and again that they would stand up for the rich. What about consumer restraint? Hilarious.

It would have to be direct action. The People’s Army would take the first steps, and the rest would have to be up to anyone who cared. Typing in this last, Lucy wondered if anyone cared, and wondered what had happened to her sense of restraint.

No matter.

Lucy bought two wash cars in the towns near Texas City, a Suzuki jeep knockoff, and an ancient Nissan with a cassette deck. It seemed forever before her lungs adjusted to the pervasive Texas City petroleum stench. She felt a little wistful about the Nissan, as it reminded her of better times. “Remember the fireflies?” said Bob, speaking from the passenger seat as she passed mesquites and dead tractors, and she thought she might cry again, but she held it together. It needed a battery. She found one at a crusty warning-yellow-painted rebuild shop. She parked the car within sight of the red refinery tower aircraft warning lights, and stashed her armory in the Suzuki.

The rest was simple. She called the refinery with a burner phone, and used a text-to-voice to warn them of a bomb. She drove the Suzuki to tree cover within sight of the refinery’s transformer bank, and opened up with the .50. The gun kicked like mad and made a terrific racket, and she had to load each round into the breech separately, so that it seemed it was taking forever. She shot ten rounds into the transformers, then looked at them with binoculars. Had she missed? Did Michael not sight in his expensive gun? She shot another ten rounds, and by the time she had finished, she could see smoke. She got out the AR-15 and popped away in their general direction when she saw a tremendous blue flash.

The transformers exploded into toxic fuligin smoke, and burned fiercely. She threw the guns into the trunk and sped off over the gravel road, stopping briefly at a swamp pool to ditch the rifles. Pulling up to the wash car, she saw two gangly boys in jean cut-offs and beaters trying to force the door locks.

Shit. How did they get to it? Did they walk five miles?

They looked at her with resentment and suspicion, and stood by the Nissan without moving. She got out of the Suzuki and walked toward them with a forced confidence and a pleading smile.

“Could you boys help me with something? I need to get this car to the scrapper, and y’all can have the salvage fee if you’ll take it.”

This produced grins and nods and “sure thing Ma’am,’ so she handed them the key to the Suzuki. Legend tells that it still roams the swamps.

She swung her purse, heavy with the pistol, into the Nissan, and drove like a maniac North, parking it two blocks from her van. Her van, her home, her refuge, her air conditioning — which she cranked to the max and blew on her face. She looked at the mirror, where her red wig obscured the Scar.

…………………………………………………………

She had enjoyed Summer camp but had always dreaded leaving her Bob. They had played together in the fields, learning the ways of bugs and tree branches, since they had first met in second grade. When she was thirteen, she joyously bounded though the wild onion blossoms, running full-tilt up to him, new breasts bobbing, as he sat on a fence rail. He turned to her with a twinkle in his eye.

“I think maybe you’ve changed a bit, Lucy.”