The Clouds Roll Away by Sibella Giorello

turtleneck, I squinted to limit the fumes’ contact with my eyes. “Get everyone to the nearest hospital. Wash the skin. Check the lungs.”
    I glanced back at the main house, thirty yards away. The lights were on. Cujo stood on the front porch, his muscular form looking squat and thick.
    â€œHe refuses to talk to me,” the sheriff said.
    â€œGet to the hospital, Sheriff. I’ll wait for Hazmat.”
    â€œBut you’re—”
    â€œI haven’t been exposed as long, and the wind is carrying it away. Were you here when the bomb went off?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. Get to the hospital anyway.”
    I ran for the house. The security lights blinked on as I moved across the lawn, throwing a long shadow on the ground surrounded by glass fragments that glittered like diamonds. On the porch, Cujo held an assault rifle, the muzzle pointed toward the porch floor.
    â€œQuick, get inside.” I reached around him, opening the door.
    â€œAre any windows open?”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” he said.
    â€œAre they open!” I slammed the door shut.
    â€œNo,” he said. “It’s cold out, why would—”
    â€œKeep the house sealed tight. Don’t open any windows. Where are the chil—”
    Hearing a whimper, I turned. The woman in the batik skirt and UVA sweatshirt sat on the stairs, looking down at us. Four little boys in pajamas clung to her skirt, their brown eyes widened with fear. Another two, older, stood behind her with assorted women, all black, all scared.
    â€œWere they outside?” I asked.
    Cujo shook his head.
    â€œDon’t let them out; the air is poisonous right now. Do you know who was driving that car?”
    â€œSome local kid. Cleveland.”
    â€œThat’s his real name?”
    â€œI don’t know. We just called him Cleveland.”
    â€œWhat was he doing?”
    â€œStarting all the cars. You know, to keep the batteries running in the winter. RPM’s got eight cars out there, and they don’t get driven—”
    â€œHow often did he do that?”
    â€œCleveland? Once a week.”
    â€œWas it the same night each week?”
    Cujo thought about it. Then nodded.
    â€œWhen the bomb went off, where were you?”
    He pinched his black T-shirt, ringed with sweat. “In the gym. I heard something sounded like the end of the world. I grabbed my gun, ran outside—”
    â€œHow long were you outside?”
    â€œLong enough to see the flames.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œCouple of seconds. Everybody was screaming so I came back in here.”
    â€œRPM’s left for Africa?”
    â€œThey took off about eight o’clock.”
    â€œWhen did this thing go off?”
    â€œAbout nine thirty,” he said. “I had the TV on in the gym, my show was almost over.”
    I heard a siren blaring and glanced out the window beside the front door. Two fire trucks barreled down the driveway, red lights spinning. When I looked back at Cujo, his eyes had turned to anthracite.
    â€œYeah,” he said, as if answering a question.
    â€œYeah what?”
    â€œNotice how they didn’t call the fire truck till now? This is why RPM called the Feds. Whole house blows up, and what, I’m gonna get us all out in time?”
    I glanced up the stairs. One boy had buried his face in the woman’s skirt. She patted his back. He whimpered. The others just stared.
    I turned my back, dropping my voice. “Cujo, put the children somewhere they can’t see or hear anything. Please. I’ll send a medic in to see if there’s been any exposure. But above all, stay inside where it’s safe.”
    â€œNo kidding,” Cujo said.
    I pulled my turtleneck back over my nose and mouth, opened the door, and ran for the K-Car.
    Windows up, vents closed, I watched from inside the car as gas-masked firemen sprayed down the blown-up vehicle. It still smoldered in the cold,