Mojave Blaze

For the better part of a month in the Mojave landscape of Bullhead City, Arizona, Rudy Sinclair found herself starting her mornings at 4 am. A car crash had left her with a herniated disc, the sciatica a relentless fiery stab down her leg, mirroring the blazing desert beyond her window.

Rising from bed was a struggle. She eased herself down to the cool hardwood floor and, with gritted teeth, arched into cobra pose, the gentle stretch coaxing sweat from her brow. Another month, she figured, until her body moved freely again. Until then, sleep remained elusive.

In the kitchen she brewed a cup of coffee and took a sharp swig of apple cider vinegar - her doctor swore it would ease inflammation - before stepping outside. She stood beneath the vast canopy of desert stars, the air a tolerable 105°F, almost soothing after the day’s scorching heat. Sand crunched roughly underfoot, carried by the restless hum of the dry desert breeze. Rudy drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and savored the calmness of a new day, letting the silence steady her.

Drawn to the garage, she resumed work on her grandfather’s '85 Ford pickup, buffing the final coat of carnauba wax over the cherry red paint. The buttery texture emitted a sweet, earthy scent with faint banana notes recalling long nights of fiddling with the truck’s mechanics with him. They had swapped the V6 for a more rugged V8 - a rocket of an engine, he’d boasted - before his death cut the project short. He never felt its power, but Rudy knew he would have loved it (If she closed her eyes, she could almost see his ghost - his torso bent under the hood, tightening a bolt). Maintaining the truck was her tribute, a labor she cherished with pride. Smiling at the memory, she worked the wax into a glossy shine, telling Alexa to play his old favorite, “Sweet Home Alabama.”

By 8 a.m., the Mojave heat climbed past 120°F, and by 10, it had magnified to a stifling 138°F, turning the air to fire. From her living room, Rudy watched the town buckle - asphalt softening to black sludge, tires melting, the power grid flickering. Weather reports were broadcast on every station, summarizing the event as a ‘heatwave’. Outside, the sand swirled in gusts, flaking against the house like grainy insects - a gritty howl signaling an incoming sandstorm. Rudy flipped on her grandfather’s old CB radio, scanning for distress signals, a habit her grandfather picked up from his trucking days. He would stay up late, listening idly for faint voices, once driving to Mountain Pass to aid stranded truckers.

As she stacked dishes, a garbled voice crackled through. Rudy paused, listening.

“…family…danger…help!..”

She rushed to the radio, wincing, locking onto the signal. The words sharpened, the man’s panic more clear.

“rge…George…Are you there? It’s David!”

Her heart sank - how did he know her grandfather?

Rudy’s hands began to shake, the sciatic pain flaring. She pressed the microphone button.

“This is Rudy Sinclair in Bullhead City. Who’s there? Over.”

Silence. She tried again.

A desperate reply broke through.

“David Millar, Ivanpuh, 113 Brant Road. My family’s in danger…gunfire! Where’s George?”

Rudy’s throat tightened to a knot.

“Rudy, please! We’re trapped! Bring George’s truck, hurry! There's no time!”

A sharp crack - gunfire? - cut through his final words, then static.

She was gripped by fear, staring at the radio in shock, the storm closing in outside. She remembered the roar of the V8 - what would her grandfather do? Despite the heat, Rudy knew she had to act fast. She grabbed a water jug, wincing as pain radiated to her heel, checked the gauges, and clipped a mesh screen to shield the grill from the sand. The all-terrain tires, her grandfather's idea, peeled down the driveway - the asphalt gripping like tar. Rudy gunned the engine, fishtailing down Crown Avenue. At Walton Street, she hung a wide-arching left to avoid slowing down, aiming for I95's sandy shoulder where the road was less sludgy. Ivanpuh's desolate peaks loomed, the sandstorm's intensity rising, but Rudy pressed on, pedal down, pain escalating, her grandfather's ghost riding shotgun.

The I95 led her deeper into the storm, the windshield wipers thrashing against the hissing sand. The GPS signaled a sharp left, but the road sign was mangled by the gale-force winds. The road was indistinct, buried under a shroud of sand. Rudy slowed to a crawl, feeling for the road's edge. A gust cleared a stark outline of asphalt and she gunned it, the thick rubber tires kicking up clouds of dust.

The next turn tested the truck's wide radius. The front right tire dipped into soft sand on the shoulder, but the V8 powered through. Ahead, 113 Brant loomed faintly in the storm's haze. She found the driveway by GPS alone, narrowly missing a trench parallel to the road. The truck lurched forward, sand pelting the hood, when the front left tire jolted over something soft - not a bump, but a body. She stopped, heart pounding, and opened the door. A man in black lay sprawled, his torso riddled with holes, sand caking the dark red blood pooling beneath him. A pinch of nausea rose in her throat. A BANG! on the hood made Rudy shriek, the fright causing a sharp bolt down her leg - she winced in agony. David appeared through the sandy haze, ushering his wife, Monica, and daughter, Sadie, to the passenger's side door. Then he disappeared back into the house.

"Thank you...thank you!" Monica cried, climbing in. Her daughter was crying hysterically, holding a rag to her bloodied shoulder. "They're trying to kill us!"

Rudy shoved water at them.

David ran back, carrying a long, narrow box, placing it gently in the bed.

"Go!" David shouted, jumping in. "Get to the nearest tower! I'll explain on the way!”

Rudy punched the GPS for Lake Mead's radio tower and threw the truck in reverse, the tires rocking over the dead man’s body. In the rearview, halfway down Brant, a pair of black sedans emerged from the sandy gale. David's face paled.

"Who's that?" Rudy yelled.

David explained, "They caused the heatwave - it's not natural like the media claims - it's a biochemical experiment gone wrong. They don’t want us to stop it. George knew." Rudy's grip tightened, recalling her grandfather's cryptic CB talks.

"We talked extensively about my injector project, he was the only one who would listen once my colleagues started disappearing."

David paused, looking down somberly.

"I'm sorry for what happened to him," David said with anguish, "He was a good man, Rudy."

Rudy looked over, tears welling.

"You're saying they killed him?!" she said in disbelief.

David broke eye contact, "I'm sorry."

While David explained the aerosol components of his injector, Rudy white-knuckled the wheel and stomped the gas, tears stinging her eyes. It was all a lie, she realized - the heatwave, her grandfather's death, all of it. The truck roared down I95's shoulder, then down I93 toward Boulder City - the GPS charting the route to Lake Mead. The sedans kept close, guns emerging from slits in the windows. A shot rang out, clipping the driver-side mirror. Rudy swerved, crashing the truck's bed into the right-flanking sedan. It lost control, slamming headfirst into a shallow trench, disappearing from sight. The second sedan clung tight. As bullets ricocheted off the frame, they raced through Boulder City, roads feeling like quicksand - rubber sagged from hubcaps, evacuated houses lifeless without power, an ambulance dead in molten asphalt. It all whipped by like a blur. Sadie buried her head in her mother's chest as Rudy sped past electrical boxes frowning from telephone poles, their bodies black from catching fire, while wire swung in the street, sparking.

The remaining sedan, already losing ground, was suddenly swallowed by the fiery sands behind them. Rudy pushed harder, distancing themselves further.

She hung a left on Lakeshore Drive, the tower's beacon cutting through the storm's grit.

"Drop me at the tower, Rudy! They want me, not you!" David exclaimed.

Monica pleaded, "David, no! We can lose them!"

Sadie sobbed, "Dad, don't go!"

Rudy checked the gauges, the gas needle plummeting, her sciatic pain now crippling.

"Monica, I have to stop this." He held her by the shoulders, Sadie began weeping. "This is bigger than us."

Rudy accelerated through a toll gate, smashing it to splinters. Ahead she could see the tower, rising high into the sky, blinking faintly.

David held his wife and daughter, preparing to move quickly.

Rudy parked parallel to the tower's entrance. David jumped out and pulled a gun from his waistband, fired two shots into the handle, then kicked in the door. He turned and grabbed the box from the truck bed and scrambled into the dark opening, not looking back. Rudy floored it, tailing away rapidly, Sadie sobbing uncontrollably.

"I have a plan." Rudy said intensely.

David ran through the door, finding a workbench, and removed the injector. With it tucked underarm, he bolted for the stairs. The roof's door opened to the wild, humming sandstorm. Stepping out, David held a hand to his brow and gazed upward at the tower. He engineered the injector to reach an altitude of 60,000 feet, releasing a sulfur-dioxide compound into the stratosphere, where it would cool the Earth - but with the sandstorm looming, that was unlikely. David knew he had to climb.

The agent’s sedan skid to a halt outside the tower and he exited quickly, his black tie flapping in the wind. He looked up to find David climbing, holding the injector tightly, inching his way up.

The agent discarded his pistol and opened the trunk, taking out his semi-automatic, clicking in the scope. He held it to his chin, one eye closed, and took aim. A spray of shots rang out, sparking the metal around the ladder, each one missing. The agent adjusted the scope, the wind gusting heavily against the gun's barrel. He held it steady, ready to kill.

The agent hesitated. A faint roar growing louder in the distance, slicing through the haze as the agent squinted into the blizzard storm. His focus shifted back to David, raising his gun. The scope steadied, the agent hovering his pointer over the trigger, locking on his target.

The roar thundered - the red pickup, its waxed hood gleaming, tore from the sand-cloud into view. The agent fired, missed, and dove, the pickup T-boning the sedan.

Smoke began to billow, the truck was leaking fluid, a fire sparked under the hood.

Rudy fell from the truck, crawling slowly to the open tower door. Shards of windshield lodged in her hair, blood trickling down her neck. Her body was heavy, her ears ringing, the storm fading in the wake of her pain. The agent stepped forward. The gun now at Rudy's head. The man kneeled, smirking, "Goodbye, you."

Two shots rang out. They pierced the air like a whistle, one penetrating the agent's shoulder, the other ripping through his carotid. He fell in a heap, his body collapsing like a sack of sand, still and silent against the cracked desert earth.

"Sadie!" a voice cried out, "Sadie!"

Monica ran through a haze of swirling sand. Sadie, tears streaming, dropped the smoking pistol, sobbing, "I had to, Mom!" Monica threw her arms around her, holding her, trembling.

David fought hard to keep his balance, he was now near the top. He kept a steady pace, sweat dripping in his squinty eyes, the heat pounding on his tired body. Once there, he attached the injector to the platform, securing it, then entered the code. The device opened. The high-altitude balloon unfurled, helium swelling it against the grey-toned sky. The wind eased to a moderate howl, the air beginning to clear. David watched as the balloon stretched full, activating the launch sequence from his hand-held application. With a successful detachment, the balloon rose high above the tower, climbing shakily toward the stratosphere.

He climbed down the ladder, finding Monica and Sadie wiping Rudy's brow with a damp cloth.

"She's alive," Monica whispered, "Help's coming."

David knelt, grasping Rudy's hand. "You saved us, Rudy. George would be proud."

An hour later, Rudy woke in a hospital bed, neck stitched, glass gone, morphine dulling the pain. David and Monica were speaking to an officer, relieved yet shaken. A nurse was tending to Sadie's shoulder graze. Rudy's eyes flickered open, the cool AC humming from the ceiling vent. She glanced at the chair under the window, finding her grandfather's ghost, smiling.