The Boys from Santa Cruz

PART THREE
CHAPTER ONE
1

April 17

I did it. I actually did it. Blew the joint to kingdom come, got away clean, and now I only have one question: Who’s crazy now, ladies and gentlemen? Who’s fucking crazy now?

I have to admit, for a while there, things weren’t exactly looking rosy. Maybe I overestimated how long it would take for the gas to fill the boiler room once the shutoff valve had been bypassed. (And by the way, whoever had the bright idea of posting the printed instructions for bypassing the valve right there on the wall next to the boiler: thanks a bunch.) Or maybe I underestimated the speed at which the trail of paint thinner would burn its way from the fire exit to the boiler room door. Either way, the last thing I remember is touching the match to the paint thinner and watching the blue flame sizzling down the corridor and around the corner.

Next thing I know, I’m lying on my back, looking up into a heat-wavy blue sky streaked with oily brown smoke. Scorched flakes spin dizzily through the superheated air, and ashes pile in scalloped mounds atop the fence posts and the bushes and the domed roofs of the cars in the parking lot, transforming the landscape into a mute, gray statuary garden.

It’s not so bad at first, this snowstorm from hell. A peaceful silence reigns momentarily. Then suddenly, as on that long-ago summer morning, my hearing returns. Crackling flames, clanging bells, ululating car alarms, anguished screams. It occurs to me that I’d better get the hell out of there before the whole fucking building comes crashing down on top of me. But when I try to crawl away, I realize my left ankle is firmly pinned beneath the heavy, steel-plated Alarm Will Sound fire door, which had been blown clear off its hinges.

“Help! Somebody help me! Somebody get this thing offa me!” Another voice joins the trapped and panicked chorus: mine. I’ve never been so scared or screamed so loud in my entire life, and yet I can barely hear myself. Sitting up, I see that I’m lying only a few feet from the burning building. A brick wall rises straight over me, blocking out half the sky. The ashes are falling thick and fast. I can feel the heat coming through the bricks. I grab my trapped leg in both hands and try to yank it out from under the un-budgeable weight. The pain is so intense that I lose consciousness momentarily.

When I come to again, a shambling figure looms over me, his face in shadow, his round-shouldered trunk silhouetted against the ash gray sky. I recognize him after a second or two: it’s Chuckles, the drooler whose mannerisms I copied when I was first coming out from under chemical restraint.

“Help me, please?” I plead.

His long arms swing loosely at his sides as he hunkers down beside me. “Heh?”

Fortunately, I am fluent in the thick-tongued dialect of the chemically restrained. “That’s right, help. I need you to help me lift this door off my leg.”

His eyes are deep-set, dark, and puzzled. Then comprehension dawns and they light up with an almost animal intelligence. Squatting low like a weight lifter, he grabs the edge of the door in both hands. Straining upward with his arms extended on either side of his thighs, he manages to raise the bulky slab high enough for me to haul my leg out from under. Quite a feat for a drooler.

After setting the door down again, Chuckles hunkers next to me, slings my left arm over his shoulder, and helps me to my feet. Leaning together with our arms draped across one another’s shoulders, half-blinded by falling ash, the two of us join the procession of scorched and bleeding stragglers staggering away from the doomed building, past the staff parking lot, and into the uncertain shelter of the trees.

Just as we reach the woods there’s a deafening roar behind us, loud as a jetliner. A concussive blast of air smacks into us with the force of a monster wave breaking, and knocks us apart. I hit the ground and lie there stunned for a few seconds. When I look back, the hospital is no longer there. In its place is a roiling pillar of smoke and ash three stories high.

Chuckles is nowhere to be seen. Using a broken tree branch to push myself up, I climb to my feet just in time to see a burning figure emerge from the smoking ruins, lurching drunkenly, arms outstretched, hair and clothes engulfed. Whoever it is gets a lot farther than I’d have predicted he would, making it almost to the tree line before he collapses.

Maybe I’m still in shock, maybe I’m not. All I know is how I feel, and how I feel is sharp and focused, like the calm at the center of the storm. I limp forward, leaning on the forked branch to keep the weight off my injured ankle. I kneel by the side of the fallen man, who’s now a smoldering corpse, and scoop loose dirt on top of him until the little dancing fairy-flames have died down. Then I start going through his pockets, taking care not to scorch my fingers. The lightly charred wallet in the inside jacket pocket belongs to Bernard J. Ruhr; it says “Staff Psychologist” on his hospital ID card. In another pocket is a roll of bills in a gold, paper-clip-shaped money clip, and a set of car keys for a BMW.

I’m starting to hear sirens now. Someone is shouting garbled commands through what sounds like a megaphone. Quickly I pocket the wallet and keys. Limping like Long John Silver on my crooked crutch, under the cover of the hovering cloud of ash and smoke, I head straight for the staff parking lot, where I spy a smoke-and-ash-begrimed dark blue BMW parked in front of a sign reading MD PARKING ONLY!!! ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED!!!

The key fits; the engine turns over smoothly. With the headlights and windshield wipers turned on, I drive slowly through the murky parking lot, feeling a little like a character in one of those postapocalypse science fiction movies.

And what happens next won’t surprise anybody who’s ever seen one of those movies: just as I’m driving out of the parking lot, a shambling figure emerges suddenly from the gloom and steps in front of the car, waving its arms.

I jam on the brakes, and the sloping hood of the Beemer shudders to a stop only inches from my recent savior, Chuckles. His pleading monkey eyes meet mine through the dingy, ash-smeared windshield. Please, they seem to be saying, please take me with you, and for some reason I’ll never understand, I find myself leaning across the front seat and throwing open the passenger door.

“Climb in,” I shout, over the crackling of the flames, the howling of the sirens, and the terrible shrieking of the burned and dying.