Chapter 7

Saturday, December 13, 2014. 5:05 p.m. Nothing drove home the insanity of her situation like the disappearance of the Ohio River bridges. The West Huntington Bridge, and the 527 Bridge, which she’d driven across to Chesapeake, Ohio, but also the East Huntington Bridge to Procterville, the 12th & 13th Street bridges up in Ashland, and the Oakley Clark Memorial Bridge linking Russell, West Virginia to Ironton, Ohio. And every other bridge she’d attempted to find on her phone. Every trace of their existence was erased.

Her first indication that something new and untoward was afoot occurred when turning left onto 144, which intersected the Ohio River Scenic Byway a block east. Access to the West Huntington Bridge was via the ORSB, and the sign directing traffic to the bridge was gone. She gave little thought to it at the time, assuming it was on the westbound side of the road. She knew her way to the bridge from her previous visit, anyway.

Skirting a half-dozen-vehicle pileup at the eastbound intersection--it required driving into the medium to avoid an overturned tractor-trailer--she headed east, half-looking for the bridge direction signs, while thinking about Val and Kim. It didn’t immediately register, therefore, that she had driven nearly the length of Chesapeake, and hadn’t spotted the exit.

Fuck it, she thought, disgruntled. West Huntington Bridge was a measly two lanes, anyway, and probably blockaded by wrecks. Confusion replaced irritation a moment later, however, realizing that she’d also missed the off ramp for the 527 Bridge. She had driven past Val Stein’s neighborhood.

“Fuck!” she exploded, smacking the wheel with her palm. “What else can go fucking wrong today?” Tromping the brake pedal with both feet, she brought Teddy to a screeching halt. Only the anti-lock brakes kept the SUV centered in the lane. Fuming, she twisted around, searching for the bridge signs, or any indication of where she was on the highway. Had she somehow taken a wrong turn, driven west on the ORSB instead of east? There to her right, however, was a road marker, indicating this was Route 7 East. Farther along, she spotted an illuminated exit-sign for Chesapeake Symmes Creek Road.

There was no such exit, her confused mind insisted. And no Route 7 extending east another mile to disappear around a curve in the road. The ORSB bore south here, merging with the bridge access lanes, splitting away at 3rd Avenue to head east, alongside the river. The travel lanes, normally dead-ending a quarter-mile beyond the interchange, now continued east. She sat on non-existent road surface.

Flustered and frightened, Rebecca climbed out, holding the door for support. Where the fuck was she? Her inertial guidance system, admittedly inexperienced with so little road-time, insisted she’d passed the bridge. Landmarks such as Pullman Square and Big Sandy Arena across the river, agreed with that assessment. She’d glanced at Big Sandy from the bridge approach an hour ago, thinking of the Duran Lambert concert, which she, Steph and Amy had attended in July. It was her first time smoking dope at a concert, which had nearly got them busted and thrown in jail. Steph’s stupid idea, or more rightly that of her boyfriend, Rob, who’d scored the dope that afternoon. Where was the fucking bridge?

Flummoxed, she dug out her phone and activated Google Maps. Her signal strength was 4 out of 5 dots, a good connection, as it should be, away from any interfering structures. It took only a moment to download the satellite map, the pulsing blue dot locating her position.

“That ... can’t be right.” Her fear level doubling, Rebecca frantically swiped left and right, searching Chesapeake end-to-end for the vanished bridges. She refused to believe what the map and her eyes told her—the bridges could not be gone! Pinching in for a wider view, heart trip-hammering in her chest, her breathing shallow and ragged, she explored the Ohio River, desperately seeking a way back across. None existed. She was stranded in Chesapeake.

“Nooooo!” Her scream was primal in nature and intensity. “Why are you doing this to me! Why are you doing this to me!” she repeated hysterically. “What did I do? I’m a stupid 16-year-old kid! I haven’t done anything to deserve this!”

Furious, she stamped her foot, banged the window with her right hand, and nearly flung her iPhone down the road with the other. Adrenaline made her heart red-line like an over-revved engine. It skipped beats, raced forward, and lagged, beat erratically before settling back again. Terrified and suddenly rubber-kneed, she sagged against the door, missing the seat as she tried to sit down, ending up on the sill. Blanched nearly white, and panting, she rubbed hard on her breastbone, hand trembling violently. “Is this about me?” she muttered. “Really?”

When she awoke, it was on the asphalt roadway with her legs tucked painfully beneath her, propped against the open car door and sill.

-------//-------

Rebecca spent her 2nd night alone in the RAV4, curled on the back seat, head propped on the pillow she always insisted on having in the car.

It was fortuitous that she had filled up that morning; it was too cold not to have the engine running while she slept. For safety’s sake, she had the windows in back cracked open an inch, allowing in fresh air, but not open enough to allow an intruder to reach inside and unlock the door. Not that auto glass would stop anyone intent on getting inside. To further ensure her safety, she’d driven 500 feet to the Chesapeake Symmes Creek Road exit that didn’t exist, followed it around to Symmes Creek, and then to Lakeside Drive. Pulling into Val’s grandparent’s driveway, she’d shut off the engine.

“I’d rather be dead than going through this!” she yelled. Gripping the wheel, she screamed, “Fuck!”, then banged it with both palms, then with her small fists, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why me? What did I do to you?” She returned to beating the wheel with her fists and screaming incoherently.

Her heart racing again, she tucked both fists into her underarms. The pounding had made them both ache, and possibly had sprained her left wrist. Tomorrow it would be miserable, swollen, and stiff, rendering her left hand nearly unusable. It ached pretty furiously now.

What happened on the highway, she wondered? She couldn’t remember the lead-up to passing out, only waking in the dark, nearly frozen to death. According to her weather app, it was 28 degrees out. It predicted a low of 20 tonight, at 4 a.m. Seeing her condensed breath in the SUV, she restarted the engine.

Break into Val’s house, she wondered. Inside, she could sleep in a warm bed; have dinner and something to drink. The dash clock read 7:40 p.m. 12 hours until sunup. In the distance, she made out the winking red and white lights atop buildings, radio antennas, and cell towers. A glance at her iPhone confirmed the same 4 out of 5 dots here in Val’s driveway: 5 of 5 for a moment.

For the heck of it, she tried Val’s number again; it rang and then went to voicemail. Like most of her friends, Val had never recorded a greeting. Plugging in the phone, she slipped it inside the pocket above the radio.

Go inside, she thought. It’s not breaking and entering if no one owns the house anymore. Suspecting that wasn’t entirely true, she poked the On button and then the button numbered 2: WKEE was still on the air. Also, WGMA, both stations she normally listened to. Coincidentally (or not), both played Fancy, by Iggy Azalea. The song ended on WGMA, which went directly into a commercial for South Point Ford. On WKEE, Iggy was midway through Fancy, so bidding her heart and breathing return to normal levels, Rebecca listened until the song ended. Another by Nicki Minaj started right away. Glowering, she punched the radio off. She disliked Nicki Minaj.

Her wrist had begun to seriously ache. Returning it to her armpit, she wondered belatedly how a radio station remained on the air with no one to run it. The same thing she had wondered last night, if memory served, concerning TV. Or was it this morning?

She reclined the seat, adjusted into it comfortably as possible, and struggled to control her breathing, and ignore the pain in her left wrist. It hurt really bad. To get her mind off the pain, she punched the On button again and waited for Anaconda to end. It eventually did.

This really was Hell, she thought. No other explanation fit the bizarre circumstances or could. Burning in everlasting fire was bullshit, dreamed up by sadistic, iconoclastic fanatics a millennium ago to keep believers in line; in reality, you fucking froze to death.

Problem, by Ariana Grande started to play. Rebecca liked this song, but it barely registered. An idea--the concept of which pleased her little better than living in Hell--had captured and focused her thoughts. This business was something akin to the movie she’d watched last month. Half-watched, if truth be told, because she and Amy had traded texts throughout. Her reason for watching in the first place was getting caught smoking dope after school with Amy and Jamie and being grounded for a month. So, what had she done on her first Friday night out? She deserved a belt for that, she thought. She’d welcome a belt.

The movie chronicled an experiment in virtual reality. Tech mogul Hannon Fuller had funded a startup headed by his protégé, Douglas Hall. Hall discovered that Fuller had downloaded himself into the simulation multiple times, clandestinely experiencing life as a rich guy in the 1930’s. One night after celebrating in the past with broads, booze and gambling, the old guy got brutally murdered in the present outside a bar.

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca had almost switched channels. Reaching for the remote, she was distracted by a text from Amy, concerning Jamie and her missed period. During the back and forth over what Jamie might or might not do about it, the good guy’s blonde girlfriend caught her eye, and then her curiosity, granting the movie a stay of execution. Rebecca finally Googled the movie to find out the actress’s name: Gretchen Mol. Never heard of her, but she had finished the movie, nevertheless.

Could this be a simulation, she wondered? The idea, even considered theoretically, left her feeling touched by God’s icy fingertip. A chill like an earthquake rolled down her spine, making the SUV shudder. It would explain a lot, though, if the simulation broke down, or had gotten hacked. Worse, the simulation could be a game, like the scientist’s existence in the movie. Uneasily, she raised her head and scanned the horizon, searching out shimmering green grid-lines.

Why her, though? What possible explanation accounted for that? Everyone else in town disappearing (possibly the entire world?) pointed a big finger at her. Add in the schizo Shell station this afternoon, and the deletion of all these cross-river bridges ... it wasn’t simply a software failure. Someone had targeted her specifically, a hapless 16-year-old, moronic enough to get high and drunk her first night off restriction. (Not to mention, nearly raped.) It just didn’t make sense. Nothing did.

At 8:00 o’clock, agitated, frightened, and resentful, she freed the Remington, slipped it into the rear foot well with the safety set, and then climbed awkwardly between the seats to lie down. It was a constant battle not to scream in anger and defiance. She hated God, Satan, and the satanic hacker who had brought turmoil to her life. For being an abject coward, she hated herself most of all. Only Rebecca Bows would sleep in a car with food and shelter only yards away.

Cushioning her head on the too-thin pillow, she crossed her arms and tucked her feet against the door panel, knowing her position would be cramped, soon enough. She’d neglected to adjust the heater but was okay with the setting as-is; she was more concerned about overheating inside her bulky coat. The blower and temperature setting seemed in perfect balance, though.

Go pee first, she wondered? Really should, she thought, rather than wait to be awoken at 3:00 a.m. by a swollen bladder. But the need to go pee was barely perceptible right now—more an imagining than an actual urgency. Grumpily debating the matter, she drifted off to sleep.

Jessica 7

Jessica lay immersed in hot water, the froth of bubbles concealing her body. Only her head stuck above water; chin buried in foam. She lay with her eyes closed, hands gently creating swirls, breathing slowly through her nose. She vowed to remain immersed until her skin pruned like an old lady’s.

The thought of coming out had frightened Robin. The idea had terrified Jessica as well; being pegged queer in a Tennessee high school was bad enough; admitting you were gay was unthinkable. The jocks would harass her and Robin to death. Jocks like Dennis and Howard. Better a suspected lettuce-licker, she’d thought, than a confessed one.

Robin was political, mouthy, demanding, ostracized by her fellow students. A strong young woman to be sure—if latently gay—she was destined to grow into an outspoken and committed member of the LGBTQ Community, Jessica thought. But being 16 and gay pretty much precluded any type of open sexual relationship in White Pine. Neither she nor Robin had ever been with another girl and had only begun tentative liaisons in late November; they were alone in Robin’s bedroom only once. Would she and Robin ever be alone together again? What would Robin make of her male personification? Would she stomp away in anger, wanting to use her fists on her? Robin was capable of that, she thought. If she got angry enough.

The drive home from Robin’s was equally terrifying. The passage of every block had left her certain the next would prove the last evincing electricity. She’d barreled down State Street to Main, dodging wrecks all the way, nearly wiping out in two places. Her stomach churned, making her alternately whimper prayers and admonitions the whole drive. She’d zoomed past Sonic Drive-in, where vehicles she recognized occupied half the spaces. First United Methodist Church offered a triple rear-ending in the parking lot. The Toyota Camry looked totaled.

At Fox Street she steered wide of the wrecked white minivan, tires complaining loudly at her excess speed. She nearly clipped the telephone pole on the corner at Douglas Street, and then missed a parked Transit van by inches.

“Will you slow down!” she screamed. “Electricity doesn’t make a difference to a dead person, Jessica!”

She nonetheless flew down Douglas Street at 60 miles per hour, heading for Cecelia. At the corner she dodged the front of Mr. Osborne’s silver Suburban where it protruded 6’ into the road. Only the large white chunks of granite bordering the edge of the driveway had stopped the big SUV from rolling out to block the road entirely. The Osborne’s front porch light offered hope that power ran along Cecelia Street. Two blocks down, she stood on the brakes and brought the Cherokee to a screeching halt. Her front porch light shined triumphantly in the dull afternoon. “Yes!” she’d screamed, pounding the steering wheel with both hands. The house had power!

She opened her eyes, gazing half-lidded at the faucet and twin spigots on the far end of the tub. She raised her left toes clear of the bubbles and stared at them. Canting her head in a way typical of her Jessica-self, she examined her long digits. Definitely not the toes of a girl, she thought. Ditto the rest of her body.

She shifted uneasily and swirled water over her chest, re-obscuring it with bubbles. She’d always disliked seeing her breasts rising from the water like tiny, pink-tipped islands. She’d detested wearing a bra. Tomorrow she’d drive to the Walmart in Morristown and shop for her first time as Jesse. She refused to go another day wearing girl’s clothes. She was a boy now and she’d buy boy’s underwear and find jeans that fit her correctly. Buy a new coat, as well, and boy’s sneakers. Add a boy’s hat, gloves, and scarf. She’d never wear makeup again. Who would she wear it for?

“Buy,” she muttered, almost laughing. “I hope they have power in Morristown, because I have no desire to stumble around in a pitch-black Walmart.” She raised her right knee and rubbed at it gently. The swelling had lessened from the 3 Advil’s she’d downed earlier, and the pain wasn’t so bad now. Her shoulder, elbow, and ankle all hurt worse than her knee. Jesus, she’d done herself a number throwing that sign.

“Idiot,” she muttered. “You gotta be more careful. You can’t afford injuries like this. You can’t afford any injuries, at all. You hear me, Jessica?”

“I hear you,” she grunted. “Stop bitching at me. You know...” She laughed. “Being a boy means no more periods, Jessica.”

She pushed upright in surprise. “Really? We never have to use a Kotex again?”

She laughed, and then grimaced. She’d been in the worst possible place in her cycle last night. Neither asshole had taken her vaginally, thank God, but Howard had barebacked her and she’d leaked afterwards. Another blessing of being a boy now?

She unconsciously fingered her belly, muttering, “I wouldn’t want that.” Not pregnant by her rapist. The thought made her erupt in gooseflesh.

She rubbed her biceps, looked down to see her nipples hard and crinkled as raisins, no different than ever. It wasn’t sexual arousal, but fear so intense that it made her almost throw up. Boy or not, she was alone, a 16-year-old with no protection anymore, nor even the cops. What if on the way to Walmart tomorrow morning, a motorcycle gang spotted her and gave chase, a hundred thundering Harley-Davidson engines burning rubber, all one-hundred intent on fucking the last slender, effeminate looking boy on Earth. How many would her Remington shotgun and Glock 22 stop before they anal-gang-raped her to death?

Rising, she twisted the spigot, allowed the water to warm, and started the shower again. Thank God for the power! She convulsively rinsed her hair though every trace of blood had disappeared down the drain earlier. She hadn’t hacked it off, though she intended to. Long blonde hair made her look tantalizingly female, even in boy’s clothing. She was a boy, but her transition to male had left her her girlish-looking, despite her new body.

Maybe she ought to reconsider her trip to Walmart tomorrow.

-------//-------

At 7:42 p.m., she made a 3rd circuit of the house, checking every window and door, and the alarm keypad. So long as the power stayed on, she’d remain relatively safe. She went nowhere without the 12-gauge tucked beneath her arm, the Glock on a belt cinched around her waist. She was primed for action.

She’d raided Henry’s underwear drawer again and now wore a clean pair of his Jockey shorts and one of his T-shirts. His pajama shorts fit her just right. She’d eaten a Banquet frozen dinner, Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, with apple cobbler for dessert. She’d experienced no further intestinal rebellion, and the toilets functioned properly tonight, anyway. She loved peeing standing up.

No doubt the police substation really existed, probably in Knoxville. Jessica had thought to Google the 6th Precinct’s location, earlier, but hadn’t followed through on it. Grabbing the duffel bag off the table, she dropped into her dad’s old recliner and placed the bag between her feet. It felt good not to have her breasts sway with every movement. She couldn’t imagine having huge boobs like Candy Walters or Rachael Browning. An A-cup was plenty big for her. Had been.

“Get your shit together, Jessica,” she muttered.

Setting aside the bottles of Deer Park water, she carefully removed and laid out the pair of blue T-shirts, the matching sweats, and ball cap (which she picked up again and donned, pulling her hair through the back), and the two boxes of 12-gauge ammunition. The box of cleaning supplies she opened gingerly, inspected, and then closed, wrinkling her nose at the astringent odor of solvent. The compartment also contained a small pair of Nike running shoes, which she’d missed earlier. Surprised, she held them up, and then checked the size.

“Wow. A girl-cop, whoever you are. I didn’t expect that.” Removing the cap, she eyed it with fresh perspective, turned it over and around, hoping for an identifying name. No name offered itself. “Okay,” she murmured, putting it back on her head. A quick review of the T-shirts and sweats yielded nothing either.

She unzipped the smaller front compartment and discovered an ID badge on a lanyard, a half-full packet of gum, a set of keys, two USB thumb drives, and an envelope stuffed with correspondence. The ID confirmed its owner as Cadet Amanda Lester, age 23, of the Knoxville Police Academy. The issuance date read October 6, 2013; expected date of graduation: June 6, 2014. A rookie cop, 6 months out of the academy.

“Congratulations,” she murmured. “At least you never arrested me.”

A glance at the envelope proved it was official Knoxville Police Department stationary. Jammed inside were dozens of documents bearing the police department logo, memos, congratulatory letters on her graduation and a recent assignment to the 6th Precinct. She found a notification of deployment with the AAR Special Task Group. Also, a list of names and phone numbers within the department, and a certified copy of her birth certificate. Amanda was 24 years old, not 23 as noted on the dated academy ID. Also enclosed was a smaller envelope containing numerous handwritten letters.

“Gloucester Point,” she murmured. “Is that for real?”

According to the envelope, Eddie and Crystal Lester lived no more than 10 miles from her Dad’s address in Quiet Cove, Virginia. A quick inspection of the letters indicated that Eddie and Crystal were Amanda’s mom and dad; Amanda presumably growing up in Gloucester Point. Hadn’t Dad bought his classic Broadwater cabin cruiser from someone in Gloucester Point? Back in 2012, she thought; replacing the smaller Bayliner cabin cruiser that he’d named Caroline Bell after his mother. The Broadwater’s name momentarily eluded her. Little Sister? Sister Bell? No, she suddenly remembered. Dad had kept the Broadwater as named: The Four Sisters, out of Newport News, Virginia.