Crossover Earth '98
Street of Fire
by Mike Cocker
The weather forecast called for a storm, but when were the meteorologists ever right? It had turned out to be such a nice night after all.
Thus eased into a hollow sense of assurance, the trucker was not expecting any problems whatsoever. He definitely wasn’t expecting the massive burst of light to flare into life squarely in his path. Then again, he wasn’t expecting to die either, so clearly it was a night destined for the unexpected.
The trucker’s name was T.J. — a name that only his trucker buddies called him — and he was cruising down the thoroughfare with a shipment of mining supplies for a site just outside the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation. T.J. wasn’t feeling the least bit drowsy; he popped crystal meth like Flintstone Vitamins. His gaze was unblinking, and the clear highway in front of him was lit by the moon and his headlights, given him fairly good visibility. From Roswell to Ruidoso, nothing on this side of New Mexico was coming his way.
Which was why the sudden flash of light about two hundred feet directly in front of him caught T.J. totally by surprise.
Thoughts flickered through his head like snapshots.
His first thought, one that had been imbedded since the very first days he had his trucker’s license, was that an oncoming vehicle was heading straight toward him with its high beams on. But there was no other trucks or cars on the road. He was the only vehicle.
His second thought was that it was a case of the X-Files. He had never believed in such things, but on this night just about anything seemed possible.
Like lead, his foot slammed down on the brakes, but the truck had been shooting along at a fairly brisk clip of seventy miles an hour. The wheels locked, the tires screeched , the air became thick with burning rubber. There was absolutely no way that he was going to stop in time.
The massive halo of light turned out to be a billowing wall of fire, shimmering on the road, and then a form seemed to just step right out of the hearth. Human in shape, the form too dazzled with flames. There was a lot of glare for T.J. to really make out true details as the ablaze figure stood amidst the brilliant, flickering plumes. The human-shaped obstruction grew as the truck slid forward. It stood there with its arms crossed in front of its chest, basking in the hellfire, unmoving.
Like an fiery cigar store Indian, thought T.J..
Then the flaming shape moved, it’s arms reaching out towards the charging transport truck. Brighter and brighter, the figure became, until a blinding, white-hazed fury rushed forward in giant waves of light and heat. And it was as if the truck had slammed into another truck, or the side of the cliff wall beside it. The trailer jammed against the back of the cab, while the front of it crushed in against the dense, searing fires. The cab was meshed in between the two, T.J. never having a chance or even a clue of what had happened. He was crushed flat, never even hearing the deafening explosion. The truck twisted back in on itself, the rear of the trailer scraping along, bending and jackknifing with an unearthly bellow.
The vehicle flipped over, continued its skid, the sound of metal killing asphalt unheard over a volcanic roar as the entire truck exploded into atomic flames. It expanded outward and swelled skyward, enveloping the expanse of the highway, including the fiery figure that caused the crash. Tar melted into black rivulets, the blaze climbing up the cliff that barred the side of the road, consuming the shrubbery that clung to it. Heat belched out in a chaotic radius. Stenches challenged the air — the blistering rubber melding with the tar, the smell of noxious gas blending with the rankness of scorched humanity.
The truck had finally stopped all motion, a fiery wake leading to the pyre of its own creation. Tendrils of black smoke coiled to the heavens.
And standing there, watching it all, was the burning human-shaped figure. Again, it stood with its arms folded like a cigar store Indian.
The rank air didn’t distract it, nor did the oppressive heat. It was not in the midst of the firestorm but had merely stood its ground as the truck folded before it, burning scraps of mining equipment littering its resting place. It watched the black smoke corkscrewing, blurring the blaze.
The figure parted from the shadows. As it moved away from the massive conflagration, the fire that swathed its body faded. The yellow-red plumes that danced about its form began to suppress itself, soon dying entirely. What took the flaming figure’s place was a tanned, able-bodied Native American. He walked away from the inferno utterly unruffled, moving with the confident strides of a proud hiker.
Behind him was a sign, not of death, destruction, and calamity, but of deliverance.
Far in the distance was the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation. He could have gotten there with relative haste, but he was in no rush because he had all the time he needed.
And so he continued to walk onward.
Because it had turned out to be such a nice night after all.