SUMMATION Page 3

  But not for long.

  The vehicles all began to rise further into the air - fifty, sixty, now nearly a hundred feet up, spiraling. Nothing but clear sky directly above them; this was no tornado. For a moment, there was silence as the engine went off, and with it the radio and air conditioner. In that sudden moment of silence the panic of both Foster parents gave way, at least momentarily, to a sense of awe, of wonder, at the mystery of their ascent into the heavens. A fear so palpable they were unable to move, unable to scream, unable to breathe. Then, as if at the apex of the American Eagle, that great old wooden coaster at Six Flags in Gurnee, there was a pause, and their stomachs caught up with the rest of their beings. In fact, the stomachs continued forward, or at least their contents, as the windshield was suddenly sprayed by both front occupants.

  Their climb ended.

  Their courses suddenly reversed, everyone was suddenly and violently dropped, no, thrown down, totally crushing two following vehicles (authorities didn't realize there were two more cars under the truck until many hours later, when the road was finally cleared, and the vehicles cut apart to haul away). Two more vehicles, watching the dance in the air, had had no time to stop when the truck and its dancing partners were thrown in front of them.

  Although they were traveling only sixty five miles an hour, it seemed they must have passed the sound barrier- both piled into the mountain of metal before any of the occupants had time to scream.

  The Fosters were reunited.

  The McGarrets, previously just behind the Fosters, were now just below. Ironically, it was as the pastor had told them just a few days before.

  Under the crushing impact, the two McGarrets became one, inseparable, one body, and one flesh, and no man would ever be able to put that asunder.

  Then, from the suddenly empty sky, it began to snow

  * * *

  And it snowed, hard.

  * * *

  The trooper tried to call in the accident, or situation, or event, or whatever it was - but could not get any radio contact. No one on the regular police channels, none at dispatch, none on the Illinois State Police frequency across the border that he monitored, not even on the Channel 9 CB channel he followed.

  And then the car died.

  * * *

  Silence.

  He tried starting the car, but nothing. No light, no starter, no nothing.

  Again, and the same result.

  One more time, and this time it caught. As the radios each began powering up, they began non-stop transmissions. EVERYONE was on the air. One person would start to transmit, and another would cut them off. There was a squealing sound as some trucker with an illegal, over-powered transmitter blasted over anyone and everyone on the CB. Wherever a voice wasn't screaming over the radio, a severe static filled the gaps. The sudden cacophony brought him back to reality, back to his senses, and he reached up and quickly turned off the CB, then turned his squad radio down, almost off. He heard a muffled WHOOOMP, and looking up from the radio, saw a fireball rise from the wreckage, climbing back to the sky where all this had begun.

  Again, it became silent, except for the crackle of the flames. There were no moans from the wounded, no screams from the trapped or burning. Thank God. He could only imagine the horror had someone lived, trapped below, surviving the fall just to be incinerated like this. He prayed that that was so.

  He watched, stunned, no different from the other onlookers. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. There was little else he could do.

  Although it seemed to be forever, it was actually only a minute or so before everything began returning to normal.

  NORMAL?

  He moved closer to the wreckage, edging across the median. He didn't bother getting out of the squad. Traffic was lined up behind the wreckage, but there was no honking, no one trying to squeeze by. Even if there had been, he wouldn't have noticed. Those in the cars immediately behind stayed where they were, frozen, stunned. Behind them, more cars were stopped, more arriving. Drivers began climbing out, trying to see what had happened.

  What had happened?

  How many dead? The fire raged, and his mind raced - a semi and car, no, several cars, spinning up into the air, then this burning wreckage. He sat there stunned, unable to move - not that moving would help - everyone there was way beyond anything anyone in this life could do. Slowly, he opened his door and stepped out. In the back of his mind he heard the radio calling him, but it seemed so far away. He stood, leaning on the door, knowing he was supposed to do something, anything, yet knowing there was nothing he could do. He stood there, frozen.

  "Unit 26, District 12, 10-97?"

  He continued staring, oblivious to the radio.

  "Unit 26, District 12, 10-97?"

  "Any unit near Unit 26, I-90 Beloit, that can head that direction?"

  The radio slowly cut through the fog, sending in little slivers of consciousness.

  "Unit 26, District 12. Unit 26?"

  He finally heard the radio. Blinking several times, he looked around. Fire, thick, black smoke, cars everywhere.

  Time to take charge. Time to deal with the situation. The event. Time to help the survivors. Yea, right. What survivors?

  He climbed out of the squad, opening the trunk to get some flares. Traffic was going to be tied up for a while, he told himself. He almost laughed at the understatement.

  Almost.

  Flares in hand, he slammed the trunk shut, and turned back towards the wreck. He had taken perhaps three steps when the first flakes landed on him.

  What the hell?

  He looked around, then up, and saw it. Snow, coming down hard, all around. SERIOUS snow - it was SNOWING! Out of nothing, a truck and some cars had flown into the air, crashing back down, and then it started to SNOW, in the middle of a hot August day. What IS this?

  What the hell was going on?

  Chapter 5

  Frankie under the Vatican

  He was fed up.

  Even more than usual. The supervisors he had to deal with, and their bosses - how could they be working for the Vatican, much less call themselves Christian? The bastards had been riding his ass for years. Not having much choice in the matter, and little opportunity for employment that would pay better, Frankie took it. And Frankie would smile. And Frankie wouldn't say anything. Even now. Even here.

  Frankie Notini was standing in sewage up to his knees. Raw sewage.

  The ancient cast iron line had cracked, then virtually exploded, spraying the subterranean room with sewage from Building 3. Building 3 was not large - no more than about forty people worked there. Normally, not a huge load for the system. Problem was, no one knew when the line actually blew out, and the room two levels below ground where the various lines joined before heading outside the compound had been gradually filling, like an oversized septic tank.

  And they think their shit doesn't stink.

  He had already spliced in a new PVC pipe where the shattered section was missing. Fortunately for Frankie, there was enough pipe exposed to work with. He was able to join the four inch pipe with simple rubber connecting boots, and the six radiator clamps snugged over the metal plate covering the rubber connection joined old and new in a simple, but waterproof, connection.

  He knew the original pipe that he fastened the new PVC to would break again, further back, and in the not too distant future, but hopefully, someone else would have to deal with it. He certainly didn't give a shit.

  So to speak.

  The level was dropping, thanks to the huge sump pump he himself had carried down, running hoses back up two floors, across the sidewalk, and into an adjoining drain.

  If only all those people in their spotless robes stepping over the hose on the sidewalk knew what was running through it, he thought.

  He imagined the pipe bursting up there, as it had here, spraying everyone around. He smiled to himself. That would be worth the cost of admission.

  Someday, all this would change. He wouldn't be doing this fore
ver. He wouldn't always be NoWienee.

  As a kid, the other boys were merciless with their teasing. "There goes Frankie Notini, or is it NoWienee? NoWienee, NoWienee, NoWienee..."

  To his horror, the name stuck. All the way to adulthood. Somebody would find out - God only knows how - that he'd been stuck with that nick name, and it would start all over. Seems there was never a shortage of assholes where he worked.

  Of course, Frankie never considered that his responses and attitudes towards everyone just made it worse.

  Even now, even here, at work, it was always the same. Calling him NoWienee was so automatic, a lot of the newer people thought it was actually his name. It had lost some of its sting, but there was still a slow burn, a seething underneath, every time he heard it.

  But he never said anything.

  He'd blown up at it, started fights over it, laughed at it - he'd tried it all. They still always knew it got to him, and they still always used it.

  But in his mind, this would change one day.

  Perhaps this is all that kept him sane and functioning.

  Oh, yes. One day, this was all going to change. His boat would be coming in. Oh, how he dreamed of it - every waking hour. The day his money was coming in. Then things would change.

  He had no relatives to leave him any inheritance, no other source of income, current or potential, yet he hung on to the dream. Perhaps that was all that kept him coming back, day after day. This job was just something to tide him over until he hit it big. As it had every day, every week, every month, these past twenty odd years. Not a day went by without him imagining what he would do with the windfall. He had spent the money twenty times over these past few years in his mind as he cleaned up after everyone and everything.

  He had already picked out the car, a Bugatti he'd first seen in a magazine dropped in the restroom trash he had been emptying. Setting the bag down, he had taken the magazine and, after looking around to see that no one was watching, sat down in one of the stalls, closing the door behind him. He proceeded to read the entire article, soaking in all the stats. From that point on, that would be his car. His car. Top down, he would cruise the boulevards, dark sunglasses on, wind blowing his hair.

  Oh, he would look good. And oh, would the people look. He closed his eyes, imagining the entire drive. And the ladies. Oh yes, he wouldn't, he couldn't forget the ladies.

  The door to the restroom opened, and he heard footsteps. He stayed silent in his stall, listening as whoever it was relieved themselves, and left. He'd figured he'd better get back to work - he'd been in the stall for a good half hour reading.

  Then, he thought better of it, and leaning back, read through another article, staying in there for the better part of the afternoon.

  Yes sir, from that day on, that was going to be his car. It was just a matter of time.

  But that was only one of the fantasies. His favorite, in fact the one that really kept him going, was not the car, nor the home, nor even the women he fantasized about (and there was no shortage of these). His greatest was more a culmination of all these, or perhaps the distillation of them all.

  His greatest fantasy was the day that he would put on the clothes that he had seen in GQ, and a number of other magazines, for that matter. The thousand dollar suit, the hundred fifty dollar tie, the five hundred dollar shoes - complete with the gorgeous woman who would serve as arm candy with the skirt up to there and the top cut down to here, and he would take that ride in his car.

  That ride - the one where he pulls up right here, inside the back area of the Vatican, pulling up to his boss's office, next to the little shit Audi his boss drove. The ride where he walks inside, woman on his arm, straight into his office. His boss wouldn't be alone. Oh, no, not alone. The other supervisors would be there too. And his co-workers. And even a few people he knew who didn't work there.

  Oh yeah, they'd all be there.

  Sitting there as he walked in. As he strode in. Like he owned the place. Which he almost could, in that fantasy. And his boss would speak. The asshole would actually speak, making some snide remark as Frankie walked in.

  Of course, he wouldn't speak to Frankie. No, he'd be talking to one of the others about Frankie. As if he wasn't there. As if he didn't exist. And not even about Frankie. It would be about NoWienee. With him standing right there.

  With him standing right fucking there.

  He was going to walk straight in, walking right up to the little shit, and he was little, come to think of it. He'd walk right up to him, grabbing his shirt in a bunch under his chin, yanking him to his feet, pulling his face right up to his. Then, now that he had his attention, he'd introduce himself.

  "My name is Mr. Frank fucking Notini, not NoWienee – Mr. Frank Notini!" He imagined slowly turning around, glaring at everyone, staring down the worst of them. Daring them to respond. Waiting. And then... And then...

  But the fantasy always seemed to stop at that point. He never knew what to do next. Beat the shit out of him? Pull a pistol and waste him? It was his fantasy, after all. He could do whatever he wanted, but he always seemed to stall right there.

  He always came back, more angry, more depressed, more frustrated than ever.

  No, he'd never stand up to them. He knew it. Which is why he was standing where he was, knee deep in other people's shit.

  He'd never risk his job. He knew that, and they knew that as well.

  No. He would smile. And say "Yes, sir, no sir, whatever you say, sir."

  The resentment had grown, and festered. He thought, dwelled, obsessed about it every night on the way home when he stopped for a drink. Or two. Or so. He didn't know how long he would be able to continue the charade. It didn't matter how much he needed the work. Or so he told himself.

  Soon, the resentment turned from a passive condition that ate away at him daily to a slowly heating hatred of those above him, eventually turning him from nursing a hot anger to an icy cool contemplation of revenge. Then, almost at once, decision made, his attitude changed. For now, rather than pitying his position, he had decided to use it.

  He would bide his time.

  Watch.

  Wait.

  And when the time came, he would nail every one of those bastards to the wall.

  The plan was simple. Basic. Safe. He began documenting all the things done wrong. Anything that they could get into trouble over. Late lunches, shoddy supervision. Unauthorized borrowing of equipment. Anything wrong.

  He knew the rules. They had certainly been pointed out enough to him over the years. Oh yeah, he knew them. He kept a list, and he was going to turn it over. It was an impressive list - over the past several months, his little book had pages and pages. Dozens of pages. He enjoyed flipping the pages, much as a reclusive miser, stacking gold coins. It was with the greatest pleasure that he completed each page, and he would relish reviewing that page over beers that night, each page another notch in his belt.

  A splash caught his attention. As the brackish water receded, he saw the culprit. Some of the stone was coming loose, a result of great age, and the washing out of some of the ancient grout supporting it, due to the leak. He stepped back. The entire section of wall looked as if it could collapse. It would be just his luck - trapped under a wall of stone, drowning in other people's shit. Sounded like a metaphor of his life. He stepped back further. Not his problem, anyway.

  The water had almost completely drained, so he checked his work again. Satisfied it was okay, and that the regular drain was functional again, he turned off the pump, gathered his tools and headed back to the locker room. It was going to take more than a quick shower to get rid of the stench of today.

  Back in the locker room, he peeled off the soggy clothes. Leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor, he stepped into the shower. At least there was hot water. That wasn't always the case. The one good thing, probably the only good thing today. Alone in a hot shower, getting rid of all the crap, literally and figuratively, from the day. He leaned back, letting the w
arm water hit him in the face, running down his chest, rinsing off the putrid remainder of the day.

  "What the- somebody take a shit in here? Who in the hell left this - is that - NoWienee - is that you in there?"

  The booming voice carried throughout the locker room, undoubtedly down the hall to where the others were signing out, and, for all he knew, probably out to the street above.

  So much for the relaxing shower.

  "NoWienee? Get your ass out here and clean up this mess. Whaddya think you're doing? Jesus, what's that smell?"

  He quickly turned off the spigot, pulled the plastic curtain back and grabbed the towel hanging just outside. Not bothering to dry off, he just wrapped the towel around his waist.

  "Uh, sorry - I had clean up the junction room where the -"

  "Just get this shit out of here - man it reeks in here. What's wrong with you?"

  "Well, like I said, I had to -"

  But he was already gone, out the door. Frankie could hear him yelling at him down the hall, knowing he couldn't hear him, but yelling anyway. Frankie could see him through the window, shaking his head, then, a little quieter, though not much, repeating the whole story to whoever was in the maintenance dispatch area, which would be just about everyone getting off duty. He could hear it now.

  One more thing for them to be on him about.

  Shit.

  He dried off, tossing the towel on the floor.

  Screw it, let someone else clean up after me for a change. He put his work clothes in a plastic bag so he could take them home. He'd have to hit the laundromat on the way home. He could already imagine the looks as he walked by the people outside. Just one more gauntlet he had no desire to go through.

  He looked at his bag, then the garbage, and back at his bag.

  He dropped the bag, sealed up to hide the odor, into the garbage. He finished getting dressed, taking his time, hoping that everyone would be gone when he finally punched out.