two oldest of these latter-day hippies had yet to be born.
Just lately the twenty-first-century Pranksters had been in Cawker City, paying homage to the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine. Since leaving they had busted mega-amounts of dope, and all of them were hungry.
It was Twista, the youngest of them, who spotted the Black Rock of the Redeemer, with its soaring white steeple and oh-so-convenient parking lot. “Church picnic!” he shouted from his seat beside Pa Cool, who was driving. Twista bounced up and down, the buckles on his bib overalls jingling. “Church picnic! Church picnic!”
The others took it up. Pa looked at Ma in the rearview. When she shrugged and nodded, he pulled Furthur into the lot and parked beside a dusty Mazda with New Hampshire license plates.
The Pranksters (all wearing Ball of Twine souvenir T-shirts and all smelling of superbud) piled out. Pa and Ma, as the eldest, were the captain and first mate of the good ship Furthur, and the other five—MaryKat, Jeepster, Eleanor Rigby, Frankie the Wiz, and Twista—were perfectly willing to follow orders, pulling out the barbecue, the cooler of meat, and—of course—the beer. Jeepster and the Wiz were just setting up the grill when they heard the first faint voice.
“Help! Help! Somebody help me!”
“That sounds like a woman,” Eleanor said.
“Help! Somebody please! I’m lost!”
“That’s not a woman,” Twista said. “That’s a little kid.”
“Far out,” MaryKat said. She was cataclysmically stoned, and it was all she could think to say.
Pa looked at Ma. Ma looked at Pa. They were pushing sixty now and had been together a long time—long enough to have couples’ telepathy.
“Kid wandered into the grass,” Ma Cool said.
“Mom heard him yelling and went after him,” Pa Cool said.
“Maybe too short to see their way back to the road,” Ma said. “And now—”
“—they’re both lost,” Pa finished.
“Jeez, that sucks,” Jeepster said. “I got lost once. It was in a mall.”
“Far out,” MaryKat said.
“Help! Anybody!” That was the woman.
“Let’s go get them,” Pa said. “We’ll bring ’em out and feed ’em up.”
“Good idea,” the Wiz said. “Human kindness, man. Human fuckin’ kindness.”
Ma Cool hadn’t owned a watch in years but was good at telling time by the sun. She squinted at it now, measuring the distance between the reddening ball and the field of grass, which seemed to stretch to the horizon. I bet all of Kansas looked that way before the people came and spoiled it all, she thought.
“It is a good idea,” she said. “It’s going on for five-thirty, and I bet they’re really hungry. Who’s going to stay and set up the barbecue?”
There were no volunteers. Everyone had the munchies, but none of them wanted to miss the mercy mission. In the end, all of them trooped across Route 73 and entered into the tall grass.
FURTHUR. ⟶ ⟶ ⟶ ⟶
You Are Released
GREGG HOLDER IN BUSINESS
Holder is on his third scotch and playing it cool about the famous woman sitting next to him when all the TVs in the cabin go black and a message in white block text appears on the screens. AN ANNOUNCEMENT IS IN PROGRESS.
Static hisses from the public-address system. The pilot has a young voice, the voice of an uncertain teenager addressing a crowd at a funeral.
“Folks, this is Captain Waters. I’ve had a message from our team on the ground, and after thinking it over, it seems proper to share it with you. There’s been an incident at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam, and—”
The PA cuts out. There is a long, suspenseful silence.
“—I am told,” Waters continues abruptly, “that U.S. Strategic Command is no longer in contact with our forces there or with the regional governor’s office. There are reports from offshore that . . . that there was a flash. Some kind of flash.”
Holder unconsciously presses himself back into his seat, as if in response to a jolt of turbulence. What the hell does that mean, “there was a flash”? Flash of what? So many things can flash in this world. A girl can flash a bit of leg. A high roller can flash his money. Lightning flashes. Your whole life can flash before your eyes. Can Guam flash? An entire island?
“Just say if they were nuked, please,” murmurs the famous woman on his left in that well-bred, moneyed, honeyed voice of hers.
Captain Waters continues, “I’m sorry I don’t know more, and that what I do know is so . . .” His voice trails off again.
“Appalling?” the famous woman suggests. “Disheartening? Dismaying? Shattering?”