The Yellowstone Conundrum (Is this the end?) by Randall John

Author:Randall, John [Randall, John]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: John D. Randall
Published: 2013-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

Thunder Basin National Grassland

“Miss Betsy, we’re going to need a town up ahead. I didn’t fuel up last night. Be on the look-out for a gas station,” Cam turned to his diminutive passenger and gave her his best oh-shit cover-up smile. She didn’t see the oh-shit behind his mask. Cam’s shoulders hurt real bad; not used to the exercise. His legs felt like two telephone poles stuck in hardened concrete. He could tell from Betsy’s eyes that she was exhausted. Tiger Kitty didn’t bat an eye.

“This might be a real town, Miss Betsy,” Cam’s hopes picked up. The sign said welcome to Wright, Wyoming, elevation 5000 feet; kind of an oddity, wasn’t it; five thousand feet; exactly. Another 280 feet and they could have called themselves the Mile High City. But, it wasn’t just the sign that was encouraging. Not all the homes were trailers like in Edgerton and Midwest; streets south of 387 were regular with street lamps and curbs; small, but nice. There were ads for the Exxon station and the Wright Inn, even a modern little strip mall.

Exxon, there’s the ticket Cam thought.

Even though they were at high elevation, there wasn’t a tree to block a whisper of a breeze. Cam imagined how the wind had to feel; hard, bitter, like a nasty dog taking a chomp on your ears. To his right he saw a fairly large group of people in the parking lot, two blocks across the brushy weeds from 387; he turned to the right and approached. The closer he got into the neighborhood, the more real the damage from the earthquake.

The roof of the Wright Town Hall had fallen in; thankfully, too early for Gladys Holt who was the receptionist and office manager for the city, population 1440. A group of people were in the parking lot, standing around the statue of a bison which until 7:20 this morning had been standing on a five-foot high concrete trapezoid. The bison had reacted poorly to the morning’s shakers; now lay on its side with a hole punched through its left foreleg where it fell onto the ground.

A man approached his driver’s side, concern and doubt written on his face; behind it was fear.

“How is it?” the man asked. He was dressed in a blue flannel shirt, black vest and wore a black cowboy hat that was perfect for him. Even though it was a cold morning and the sun was rising, the man didn’t look like he was cold; he just looked so damn cool. I’ve never for one single day in my life looked as cool as this guy; not an hour in a single day Cam thought; Wright, Wyoming written on his forehead; bison, ranching, mining, Republican, four kids, Ford trucks.

Cam brought the truck to a growling stop.

“I need gas.” was Cam’s first response.

Cool cowboy, 42 shook his head. “We don’t have any power. The Exxon is the only station in town. Gas is in the tank but there’s no power to get it up; the station doesn’t have any emergency power.

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