_______________________________
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Red and the old timer, who is scrawny and dressed in a very dirty cover-all,
are in the old barn of the original homestead at Bridgewater. The barn is
tilting badly to one side, but has fallen against some trees so did not topple
entirely. The old barn has lifted off its foundation, on the opposite side, so
the light of day is giving the barn workroom plenty of light. Red is
inspecting tools laid on the workbench and casting his eyes along the rack of
tools hung on the wall, taking an inventory.
A gas, you say? Never heard of it.
The old timer is now seated on a low stool at the front of a small tractor.
The tractor is almost antique, many decades old with the paint almost entirely
worm off or covered in grime, rusty in places. The tilling blades in the rig
drawn behind the tractor are held in the raised position, some dried grass
stuck to them here and there. The tractor engine cover is lifted up. Red grabs
a pail and turns it upside down to use as a stool, squatting next to the old
timer. Both their heads are almost pushed into the engine, side by side, along
with the old timer’s right hand, pointing, his elbow stuck out into the air at
a right angle. He says,
Put the fire bin here, and just kinda heat the wood
slow, that’s the ticket. It’s a gas! We need a coil
here, and a cutoff . .
_______________________________
Big Tom is standing in the doorway of the tilted old barn, leaning against the
raised side of the door with his arms folded over his chest. He now looks as
though he’s had a bath, and is wearing some fresh clothes, borrowed from
others at the camp. The borrowed shirt is too tight, too small, and the pants
too short.
Need a hand?
Red looks up from his work, an almost ecstatic look on his face.
I believe we got it!
Red gestures back toward the work bench where a square metal container has had
a door cut into the top for loading wood chips. A hose is looping out from one
side to collect the wood gas, with a collection jar below the loop to collect
the distilled wood gas. Wood gas is dripping into the collection jar. There
are slits cut into the side of the firing chamber, toward the bottom, for air
intake. There is another drain on the other side where steam has condensed
into water and is dripping out.
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The old timer rises to dismantle the apparatus, eager to bring the firing
chamber over to Red. He pulls his hand back quickly, realizing it is still
hot.
Damn!
Billy appears in the doorway, alongside his father. He quickly brightens into
an ecstatic look that mirror’s Red attitude.
Cool!
_______________________________
The camp folks have their backs to some woods with a fallow field in front of
them. The faces reflect skepticism. A chugging motor is starting up very
haltingly. Finally, the motor is doing a steady chug-chug. The faces of the
camp folk reflect astonishment, some blinking, one a bit teary eye’d, some
just gap jawed.
The antique tractor is slowly plowing a row in the fallow field, the camp folk
to the side along the woods. The wood gas apparatus can be seen stuck to the
side of the tractor engine on one side. A couple camp folks, men, have come
forward to talk to Billy and Big Tom who are squatting on the stool and
upturned pail from the barn, energetically chopping some branches gathered
from the nearby wood into chips with an ax.
_______________________________
Mark and Brian have floated rapidly from the Rockies to an approach to New
York City. The strong wind is obviously dragging them along at a fairly rapid
70
clip, the parachutes ahead of them and filled out like a sail. They have been
traveling for days, are dirty with smeared faces where they have wiped the
dust off but not bathed, when landing for some sleep. A week has passed since
they left, and they appear thinner than when they left. Brian has pulled his
legs up and appears to be pulling himself up into a fetal position, his arms
around his knees. We see his long hair floating out in the wind. Mark is
excited.
Brian, there it is, there's the city! We're home,
home! Lets find a good place to bring this down.
Mark is looking up while he positions his hands on the ropes. When he glances
down, to mentally prepare his descent path, a grim look comes over this face.
The Statue of Liberty is seen tilted at a 45 degree angle, with the remnants
of a sailboat caught in and dangling from the flame, seaweed shreds up to her
chin. No high rises remain standing, but the city skyline looks like a rubble
instead, black in outline against the gray skies. Bridges are disconnected
with most sections down. No boats are seen on the water, but a couple large
ocean going vessels can be see floating, bottom up.
Mark's eyes have filled with tears, and he glances upward, not wanting to look
down. Finally he glances down to check on Brian, talking to himself.
At least you're not there to see all this. Time to
say goodby. Nothing left to live for.
Mark points the hot air jet directly at the parachute lines, melting them one
by one. The rig begin to tip to the side, suddenly plunging into the ocean
below.
71
-Harms Way-
Colonel Cage is fluffing the bedding he's been given, a cloth bag filled with
straw. He's laid his clothing out across the end of the bed, neatly as a
military man would do, and is down to his underwear, a grimly T-shirt and pair
of boxer shorts. He adjusts the back of his T-shirt collar, and then leans
back into the straw tick bedding, with a sigh. A puzzled look comes over his
face, and he fusses with the back of the T-shirt collar again, this time
getting an alarmed look, pulling the T-shirt over his face and staring at the
collar now in front of his face.
Oh, my God ..
Colonel Cage and Ian are in the council room. The light is dim, only a single
oil lamp burning, placed on the table. Colonel Cage has gotten Ian out of bed.
He's holding his T-shirt in front of him, under Ian's nose, shaking with rage.
Damn them to hell, they've bugged me, they know where
we are, and they'll be coming after us!
Ian looks puzzled and glances up into Colonel CageS’s eyes, staring steadily
by way of asking for an explanation. Colonel Cage sighs and seeing he has to
fill in the pieces, struggles to calm down.
It’s a wire. I didn't know I was carrying it. If it’s
live and I've got no reason to think it’s not, they
can trace me, trace this thing, and it'll lead them