Busted Flush

The water pours out of the hose at high pressure. I actually find the pounding soothing on the sore muscles in my back. My T-shirt and jeans cling to my skin. Behind my lids it feels like I’ve used eye drops made from sand. It doesn’t occur to me until I turn around that getting a soaking as Lilith will provoke quite such a reaction from my companion. Bugsy’s eyes are unfocused, and he’s sporting a gigantic hard-on that presses against the fabric of his wet trousers. I can understand why—when you’re faced with this much death the urge to life is strong. It’s also Bugsy. He doesn’t see much action. A man who changes into bugs at stressful or exciting moments would not be the ideal lover.

“You want to . . . ?” His voice is husky. “It would only take a few minutes,” he says.

“An excellent reason for me to say—no.”

A car glides past and I realize a fraction of a second too late that it’s a police cruiser. My gut clenches and I reach for Bugsy, but the cop has spotted us and we’re pinned in the glare of his spotlight. The lights start flashing, and he noses up into the car wash bay.

The cop is a large, shadowy form standing prudently behind his open car door. “What are you two up to?” The drawl is hard and suspicious.

I’m acutely aware of the Hazmat suits, and I can’t seem to think. Bugsy steps in. He is quick. I’ll give him that. “Uh . . . wet T-shirt competition. We’re practicing.” There’s a faint interrogatory rise to the words. I hope the cop misses it.

I also hope he’s a redneck and not a Baptist. He shines his flashlight on my chest. The leer dispels any doubt as to which camp he belongs. “Well, you two better get on out of here. There’s a bunch of Feds just down the road, and they’re detaining everybody who ain’t local—and some who are.”

“Thanks, sir,” Bugsy says. The cop steps back into his car and drives away.

“Good save,” I offer the compliment because I want to get Hive out of Texas, and I’m afraid it won’t be easy.

“You didn’t say anything,” Bugsy says.

“I was the prop.” I’m looking for the right approach when Bugsy makes it unnecessary.

“Can you get me home? I gotta write my blog.”

“And tell the world what?”

“That a nuke went off here.”

“Is that wise?”

“It’s the truth.”

I study him. He really doesn’t get it that sometimes—often—the truth is overrated. But I take him home to Washington, D.C.

I can’t believe I’m actually checking into the Best Western Swiss Clock Inn in Pecos, Texas. The walls are painted white with a green roof and an absurd clock tower rising from the center of the building. The nearest town to Pyote is Wick, but it lacks any kind of accommodation, and it is now behind the law enforcement cordon.

At first the woman at the reception desk tells me there are no rooms available, but I milk the British accent for all it is worth, with a hapless Bertie Wooster sort of demeanor. She loves it, and soon she loves me. I get a room. As I’m walking to the elevators I pass the ubiquitous wooden stand filled with flyers detailing all the wonderful things to do in Pecos. The Pecos Cantaloupe Festival seems to be most prominently displayed. Pity I’m here too late for that excitement. Another flyer shows a Schwarzenegger looka-like dressed as Conan the Barbarian. BARBARIAN DAYS! it announces, JUST 259 MILES AWAY IN SCENIC CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS. Yes, 259 miles, just a Sunday drive for a Texan. If there was gasoline.

I dump the garment bag in the room, and crank the air-conditioning to high. It’s one of those low, under-the-window affairs, and it sets up a frightful clattering. It does pour cold air into the stuffy room. I’m tired, but I’ve got to hit the town. My guess is that evacuees from Wick and any survivors from Pyote will be in Pecos. I need to find them, buy rounds, and loosen their tongues. But God I’m tired.

I’d dropped Bugsy in D.C., and had to wait for dawn so I could make the daylight-to-daylight jump as Bahir. Once the Hazmat suits were back in London I stopped at my flat and packed a bag so I wouldn’t arrive back in Texas without luggage. I checked on Dad, and prepared him a cup of tea and a slice of toast smeared with Nutella. He ate three bites. I finished it, and now it lies in the pit of my stomach like a piece of lead shot. It’s early afternoon in Pecos. Someone will be at the local watering holes.

While I walk I use my phone to link to the Internet. Bugsy has been a busy boy. His post is already up.

It was a Nuke, boys and girls! The coyotes are glowing at night—at least the ones that aren’t dead. I know, I know, it’s so twentieth century to be talking about The Bomb, but it’s clear that MAD has stopped working, and now it’s time for everybody to get Mad.

I pass one of those white metal boxes that pass for a newsstand in the U.S. The local Pecos paper is still yammering about grain elevators.