THE CAR WAS CREEPING AT A SNAIL’S PACE UP THE middle of the ramp. Lauren saw the driver hunched behind the wheel. An old woman.
“Stop!” she screamed.
Running down to meet the car, she grabbed the door handle and managed to pull it open. The woman still gripped the steering wheel. Running next to the car, Lauren pushed in next to her and got a foot on the brake pedal. The car finally stopped. Lauren jammed on the emergency brake.
“Didn’t you see the bridge was out?” she said, angrily turning toward the woman. She’d almost gotten both of them killed.
The old woman sat there, not moving. She wore a winter coat and had a green stocking cap pulled low over her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.
“I guess so,” the woman said. “I don’t see too well at night anymore. Cataracts.”
I guess not, Lauren thought. She noticed that the woman’s glasses were as thick as soda bottles.
“What were you trying to do?” Lauren asked, feeling her anger drain away.
“Girl, don’t you know we’ve had an earthquake?” the woman said. “I was trying to get out of town and must have got myself turned around.” In the dim light, the woman looked at least eighty years old. Her eyes were cloudy, and she had gray skin like etched leather.
“My name’s Milly Drew,” the woman said. “I’d be obliged if you’d drive me home. I should never have tried a stunt like this. I guess I just got scared.”
The ramp swayed in one of the repeated aftershocks.
“Bobby, get in Missus Drew’s car,” Lauren said, opening the back door. Her grandson scrambled in.
Lauren moved into the driver’s seat. She backed down the approach ramp and got the car turned around. She recognized the model—a 1963 Chevrolet Impala. She’d learned to drive in one. But this looked brand-new. White exterior, red seats.
“The car belonged to my boy,” the woman said. “He died some years back, and I never got around to selling it. My husband’s dead, too. He was a smoker.”
“Where do you live?” Lauren asked.
“On Old Benton Road near Interstate 24,” the woman said.
It was close, a couple miles.
Lauren hit the gas pedal and the car instantly shot forward. The acceleration almost took her breath away. Then she noticed the crossed-flags emblem on the steering wheel. It was a 327.
Mrs. Drew had a muscle car.
Lauren turned onto Route 62, heading away from downtown Paducah. Five minutes later she pulled into the driveway of the woman’s home. It was a one-story white frame house that looked beautifully maintained. A front window was broken and the porch sagged, but the place didn’t look badly damaged.
“I’ll be all right,” the old woman said. “I’ve got plenty of food and a daughter who lives in town. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you did.”
Lauren hesitated, then said what had been on her mind ever since she’d stopped the car on the bridge.
“There is something you can do, Milly. Let me borrow this car for a couple days.”
“Honey, you can have the damn thing,” the woman said. Lauren promised to pay her. “You’re sure you’ll be all right here alone?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” the woman said. “I hope that old car gets you where you want to go.”
Bobby helped the woman climb up her front steps. They left her there, sitting in a swing chair on the porch wrapped in an overcoat and wearing her green cap. She waved to them as Lauren backed out of the driveway.
A few minutes later they were racing down Route 62, headed due west for Heath and her parents’ home.
Paducah was burning behind them. Lauren could see the glow of the fires in the rearview mirror. The road was in bad shape, and there was more traffic, people trying to get out any way they could. Many of them were driving like maniacs. Several cars lay overturned on the side of the road.
“Someone’s hurt back there,” Bobby said as they passed another wrecked car.
Lauren had seen two bodies lying in the grass. She didn’t slow down.
She was grateful for the big Chevrolet. It was fast enough to keep them out of trouble. The pavement was badly damaged, and some of the cracks were two and three feet wide. She had to slow down and pull around them.
They were almost to Heath when she ran into the first roadblock. Several cars were pulled to the side. Two cops with red flashlights flagged her down and told her to turn around. The road was closed. Something had gone wrong at the uranium plant, one of them said.
Lauren was vaguely familiar with the plant, which processed enriched uranium for weapons and nuclear reactors. It covered nearly forty acres.
Like most from the area, Lauren didn’t know the specifics of what went on there and didn’t wait for the cops to explain what was wrong. She gunned the Chevy and roared away, laying a long black streak of rubber on the pavement.
She ran into the next roadblock four miles later. It was on the outskirts of Heath. This time the men were heavily armed and had a barrier across the road. There were five or six of them, and they were dressed in strange-looking coveralls.
“What’s that over their faces?” Bobby asked.
They were wearing gas masks.