He empties the crate, storing the guns behind a panel in the wall. He fills the crate with tools from his workshop and puts it under the worktable. Thomas Jefferson himself said “the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.” When you read your history, Avon thinks, there’s no excuse for surprise. It was always going to end in blood.
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men, right? Isn’t that the Pulp Fiction quote? This shit isn’t complicated. Someone has to shepherd the weak through the valley of darkness, to protect them from politicians who use them, insurance companies who exploit them, landlords who evict them, elites who seek to oppress them. This is why the sheriff is so fundamental to the heart of America. A western figure, a county father, supreme in his authority, an American Solomon able to consider facts and render judgment. A simpler figure from a simpler time.
He sits on the tailgate of his pickup truck and eats his egg sandwich and drinks his coffee. He doesn’t care that they’re cold. He is a free man, free to eat what he wants, when he wants. When he’s done, he hoses out his truck bed and coils the hose on the wall.
Girlie comes out at nine thirty to say she’s going to work. She tells him she’s sorry what she said about the floors. All that matters is he’s home. He can see from her eyes that she doesn’t mean it, but what matters is she shows him respect. That she respects the natural order, man over woman, white over colored.
An hour later she calls him in a panic. Rose is in trouble in California. They have to rescue her. Avon tells her California is on fire, and besides, he can’t leave the state. Girlie tells him she’s serious. This old Witch is holding her sister hostage. A real bruha. Girlie talks a mile a minute about bad juju, about old-world evil sorcery. Mangkukulam, she calls it. She says they don’t just have to save her sister’s life. They have to save her soul, and if you love me, you have to do this. Otherwise, Girlie says, she’s going herself.
They fly Southwest from Orlando to Long Beach. Girlie pays for everything from her rainy-day fund. They ride in the back of the plane. Girlie does sudoku. There is a 9mm disassembled in her suitcase in the cargo hold, packed by Avon. The stewardess comes around with the snack basket. Avon has some chips and asks for a Coke. When the plane hits turbulence, he grips the armrests. He likes an enemy he can fight. Rose gave her sister an address in Van Nuys. Avon figures it’s a walk-in, walk-out situation. Bang on the door, get your shit, maybe pull the gun for show, and then they’re on their way.
They see the smoke as far away as New Mexico, the clouds below them darkening, as if in storm. The seat belt light chimes on. Over Arizona they begin their descent. The smoke billows up toward them, not like mist, but like wool. It is an oil painting of grays, browns, and swirling white, lunging toward the plane in sudden waves. Fear moves through the plane, passengers craning toward the windows. Darkness rises to meet them. They enter it with great reluctance. A collective gasp arises. Near the front of the plane a baby starts to cry. People start to question the intelligence of the captain with increasing volume.
The plane continues to descend. There is no floor to the smoke it seems, and they begin to worry they are falling into the fire itself. That their whole lives have been a series of seductions by silver-tongued devils, personal and professional, leading to this moment outside the gates of hell. They wonder if somewhere in the fine print of all those digital terms and conditions they signed—new apps, new media, new phones—they forfeited their rights to eternal peace.
They are over Joshua Tree when an orange glow rises. The mountains ahead of them are on fire. Avon orders a Jack Daniel’s. The captain comes on the radio to say the plane is rerouting. They will head for San Diego and approach the airport from the south. Through his starboard window, Avon watches as an ocean of flames devours everything in sight.
Have you ever spilled water on a table and watched it run in all directions at once? Before your brain has even finished processing that the glass has tipped, the water is everywhere. That is how the wildfire looks from ten thousand feet. A liquid heat spilling across the mountain range, uninhibited by obstacles or friction. It races through the trees the way a tidal wave consumes a city, forcing its way through walls, through buildings, through everything. It is a force beyond rational thought, primordial, dwarfing human civilization, an insatiable god devouring the world.
At this moment, watching an entire mountain range burn, it is possible to see the end of all life on Earth. Not their individual lives, but life in its entirety. For Girlie it inspires the monsoon terror of her youth, the acute dread of the island dweller surrounded by endless sea. What chance do we have? she thinks. The plane they’re on seems tiny in comparison, as do their cities, their lives. She pictures the flames racing east, consuming deserts, mountains, cities, and savannas until the whole planet is burning. Next to her, Avon feels a testosterone thrill, the unhinged panic of a boy who wants to see what happens when he lights a match and finds himself trapped inside his burning house, flames blocking every door.
For a moment, every person on that plane understands with piercing clarity that they have lost control of the future. They know that whatever creature comforts they have accustomed themselves to are an illusion, a violin to be played as the Titanic sinks. Except here there are no lifeboats, no rescue ships.
Here they are all going to drown.