If this were one of those old horror movies he grew up with, he’d be hearing single piano notes right about now. Unable to control his irrational fear any longer, Jim grabbed a handful of pre-teen dresses from the nearest rack and ran out of the store.
There was an oiliness to the air. It stuck to his skin making it slick and dirty.
Jim’s eyes smarted painfully. He resisted rubbing them lest he get more of the crap in his eyes. The torn strip of summer dress he now wore over his mouth and nose provided a modicum of protection against the pollution but he could still smell the stench of burning rubber and felt its chemical tingle in his throat and tasted the acidic sourness in his mouth.
The thick plume of smoke that he had seen rising into the air earlier now filled most of the southern horizon. Vast clouds of smoke roiled and billowed; angry, black and purple bruises forming against the skin of the abused sky. Most of the western skyline was gone, buried beneath a black shroud of smoke, the sun a barely visible afterimage and, he realized with horror, the buildings visible earlier had disappeared behind the thick bank of smoke that rolled and crept towards his location. Jim could see unruly spires of flame leaping high into the air: the source of the Pompeian snowstorm that now fell on the city. Tendrils of smoke drifted free from the main body of the massive fire and hung overhead the mall, the advance guard of the rapidly approaching firestorm, blown by the high altitude winds.
“Christ!” he said aloud.
The sense of disquiet he felt in the empty clothes store had not entirely dissipated and as he watched the rapidly approaching storm of smoke, his uneasiness returned with a vengeance, teetering on the verge of panic.
“Get a grip,” his voice muffled by the bandana over his lower face, surprised by the trace of nervousness he detected in his own voice. He just needed to reason this out, not let the panic blind him to his situation. “I must have got here somehow. There has to be a car parked somewhere out here.”
Pushing his hand into his jeans’ pocket, he pulled out a six-inch rectangle of green plastic, blank on one side. He flipped the piece of plastic over. On the reverse side, he saw the glittering laser etched hologram of the Ford Company.
What car had he been driving back then — back now, he corrected himself, staring at the plastic ignition key in his hand as if it might be able to answer him. Of course, it was the Ford Phoenix. He’d only ever owned the one Ford; the great-granddaddy of all motor vehicle companies had gone belly-up in the late thirties, swallowed up by Nissan who immediately laid off all the subsumed company’s employees and closed down all the plants.
The Ford Phoenix was a great little car — if ironically labeled, having been the last vehicle to roll off the Ford production line. It was one of the first vehicles to switch from the gas-electric hybrid system to a hydrogen fuel cell. Simone had bought this one for him for — when was that?
His thirty-fourth, thirty-fifth birthday? They had still been living in California back then. He was still working for J.P.L. and they had that place in the San Fernando Valley. Their first home.
They were still been together back then too. They were still a family, back before everything had fallen apart, back before the accident that had taken Lark and destroyed their marriage.
Jim froze. Simone! He hadn’t dreamed that she might be caught up in all this, but if this event was as widespread as he suspected it might be, then they still lived in the house in the valley at this point in time. They wouldn’t put it on the market for another two years and Simone would be there. God knows what she might be going through.
They hadn’t talked in years but, if there was even a slight chance that what was going on was as widespread as he suspected then he was not going to leave her alone. He had to get to her.
Now, where the hell was the damn car parked?
The key-card had two raised studs; press one to unlock the vehicle and the other to switch the anti-theft protocols on or off. The alarm system would give an electronic warble and flash the car lights when activated or disarmed. If he were within fifty feet or so of the car, the system would pick up the transmission from his key-card.
He was just going to have to walk the rows of parked vehicles until he found his car, hopefully before the rapidly advancing inferno reached him.
It took him nearly half an hour before Jim finally found his Ford. He was beginning to worry that the little power cell that drove the key-card would exhaust itself if he had to carry on much longer and had rationed himself to pushing the button every ten cars to conserve its charge.
The boop-boop of the alarm sounded off to his left but he didn’t catch the flashing lights. He pressed the button again and turned to face the direction of the alarm, he squeezed past an ancient SUV and into the next row of parked vehicles. This time, when he depressed the stud, he spotted the flashing red taillights of his blue Ford Phoenix through the swirling mist of smoke, one row across from where he stood.
A cellphone lay on the passenger seat; tossed there he guessed when he parked the car. Jim grabbed it and flipped it open as he climbed into the car. It had power, the screen glowed a reassuring blue. Scrolling through the list of saved telephone numbers, he found the number for the house landline and hit the call button with his index finger. The phone beeped the tone for each of the numbers rapidly in his ear then… nothing. Not even an engaged tone. The LCD screen flashed NO SIGNAL repeatedly at him.
“God damn it,” he hissed, tossing the useless phone onto the back passenger seat before he pushed the key-card into the starting slot on the dash, engaging the car’s power source.
A low mechanical thrum filled the cabin of the car as the elctric-powered engine hummed efficiently into life. The dashboard computer glowed with electronic luminescence and a synthesized voice swam unexpectedly from the car’s concealed dashboard speakers. “Hello James, please fasten your safety restraint,” it said in a husky female contralto. Jim pulled the safety strap into place, knowing that this would be the only way to mollify the eternally persistent onboard Artificial Intelligence of the car. Besides, if he didn’t comply with the AI it would not allow him to engage the drive and he would be stuck here until the fire reached him. “Thank you, James,“ the disembodied voice said as the clasp of the seat belt clicked into place.
The Phoenix came equipped with an onboard navigation system as standard. Its display was set into the dashboard, within easy reach and view of both the driver and passenger.
“Computer, display my present location,” he said. Immediately the display flickered into life. Jim tilted the screen toward him to get a better view, saw it had already computed the location of the car, displaying it as a red pulsing triangle in the center of the screen. The surrounding streets and roads along with places of interest were all illustrated and labeled. At the bottom of the screen, a row of icons allowed for manipulation of the system: activation of the voice mode, omni-directional scrolling, zoom in and out and half-a-dozen other options. Jim tapped the icon labeled Current Location. Instantly a box popped up with the information, Nearest Traceable Location: 21207 Topanga Canyon, California, 91614.
Quickly, Jim navigated through the menu system until he found the Directions button. He was relatively sure he knew the general direction of the house but it had been a quarter of a century since he had last made this drive and he did not want to get lost out here. He was going to need a little help from the computer.