c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-25)
After several days of rain at Evergreen Estates, the weather had turned cool and dry. This softened the mood of residents, who were damp and disgusted with the seasonal progression. Most wished for hotter temperatures and the approach of summer. But as the pace of life continued in this rural development, there was a hint of mayhem in the air. The park had reached a tipping point where every available space for parking had been filled by some sort of Tesla automobile. Most were versions of the Cybertruck, customized with accessories that one would have expected to see on models of regular workhorses, powered by fossil fuels. They teetered on oversized tires, with colors of the Confederate battle flag, or other symbols of rebellion, shining boldly. One or two even carried improvised racks for accommodating shotguns, in the field. At Lot 13 however, there were no such signs of zeal for Elon Musk or his presidential host at the White House.
Townshend Carr Lincoln had no interest in owning one of these specialized EVs. He was wallowing in the midst of a Four Roses bourbon binge. Lost in a stupor of detachment and disinterest.
A gentle embrace of evening sunset had painted the sky overhead in hues of orange and red. The aging loner was drunk enough to feel content, and tipsy. Yet not inebriated to the point of passing out his bench. Post lamps up and down the street began to illuminate lawns that were in need of a groundskeeper’s care. Then, the lights went out with no explanation. There was a hush of silence as appliances and machines all stopped functioning, in unison.
A buzzing of drones echoed over the junkyard landscape. With surprise, the shaggy hermit noticed that his cell phone screen had gone blank. The connectivity he took for granted was now gone, in a flicker of lost technology. His music, a stream of obscure, hillbilly recordings from the 1940’s, had stopped, inexplicably.
“Dammit, who turned off the tunes?”
There was a rising tone of artificial propulsion, as rotors spun wildly. Wisps of smoke billowed from driveways along the rustic boulevard, as vehicles began to spark, and combust. One at a time, the sleek, angular mules burst into flames. Soon, curses were shouted from trailer to trailer. Linn Speck, who had been eating a dinner of pulled-pork sandwiches, stumbled into the grass by his walkway. Still barefoot and in a white undershirt, and plaid boxer briefs.
“MY TRUCKKK! MY NEW TRUCKKK! IT’S RUINED, COMPLETELY RUINED! WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED TO MY TRUCK?”
Stacks of pallet wood, trash, outdoor furniture, and junk motorcycles soon ignited, as the fires burned hotter. The din of an ongoing, aerial assault pounded eardrums and shattered windows. Eventually, pets scattered, and mothers with their young children were crying. Firearm blasts sounded, as some in the neighborhood decided to take aim at the invading swarm. But their accuracy was impeded by the speed of this anonymous invasion.
Finally, the park maintenance garage exploded, with its store of mower gas and other chemicals compromised by this attack. Dana Alvarez, their part-time property manager, had already left for the day. So, there was no one on duty to report what had happened. A wailing of alarms added to the cacophony, but went ignored. Chaos took hold as the darkness became pregnant with rage and fear.
Rydell Gaines, a laborer and mechanic who had recently moved to the distant wasteland with his bedroom-busting brood from Pennsylvania, stomped into the road with mud on his work boots. He swore and swung his fists, with grease smeared up to his elbows.
“Look at this crazy shit going dahn! Every rig on our street is burning! What a gawdawful mess! I just signed the paperwork for my Cybertruck! That deal emptied my bank account! Yinz know I’m screwed! The whole family is screwed! This is worse than the Stillers losing a Super Bowl!”
As he went running up their cracked and crumbling avenue, Darby Stronelli appeared from her own trailer. She was screeching and sobbing, while tugging frantically at her spiky head of hair. She had a green, garden hose in hand, which spat out a pitiful stream of water. Too little for the task of saving her home assets.
“MY BARN! MY PARTY BARRRRN! IT’S ONNN FIRE! AND IT IS! I’M GONNA LOSE ALL MY SHIT! THERE’S A WHOLE FUCKING CASE OF BUD LIGHT IN THE REFRIGERATOR! NO, NO, NOOOOOO!”
Lincoln watched with disbelief, through the opaque filter of an alcohol haze. He was powerless, and yet, content to be a witness.
Neighborhood matron Maylene Jefka stood on her roofed deck, with an old-style, cordless phone. She was dressed for bed, in a fleece muumuu, and nightcap. Her residence was untouched by the conflagration, in what appeared to be an act of divine mercy.
“Blessed Jesus, hear me pray! Make us safe, both night and day...”
Firefighters from the isolated township arrived quickly. Yet their equipment had not been designed to combat the spontaneous disintegration of battery packs, on a mass scale. Heat rising from the village of mobile homes left a signature that was perceptible from miles away. In a matter of minutes, the entire property had been cordoned off, and all access was blocked.
Acting Chief of Police Chebman Necker stood at the crest of Sidley’s Hill, by Route 528. His department was small and understaffed. So, implementing an evacuation plan proved to be overwhelming. But with residents streaming up Pine Trail Road, he stood guard over a makeshift encampment of survivors who had fled to a point of safety.
In defiance to this rampant incineration, Lincoln kept his place on the porch. He mopped away sweat with a garage towel, dripping whiskey and beer. What had begun as a cool evening now had the thermometer on an interior wall of his inset cubicle registering well over 120 degrees. But as he was one of the few who had not accepted the VMS rent-to-own deal, there was no immediate cause for worry. An empty lot to his east offered protection on that flank. And the abandoned boxcar to his west formed a buffer of sorts. Still, it seemed prudent to exit before the situation turned into a rampage of total destruction.
Unfortunately, he was very, very drunk.
“Okay Lord, I’ll join Granny May in her petition. If this is the end, I won’t say it ain’t deserved. I earned my damnation with plenty of sins! But if you’ve got it in your heart to forgive an old bum like me, then I’ll accept that mercy with a happy heart! Amen!”
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