Fire & Flood Read Online Free PDF Page A

with Popeye-sized forearms and his female friend, who finds her inebriation hysterical. They’re a flawless match in this decrepit town of Montana.
    A waitress in bad khakis appears from the back and strolls toward me, holding a discarded tray in her right hand. Watching her walk, I decide I could teach her a thing or two about sashaying.
    “Can I help you?” she asks.
    “Yeah.” I pull myself up, trying to appear adultlike. “Do you guys have a computer I can use?”
    The waitress cocks her head. “You buying something?”
    “Um, yes?”
    “You know how to tip?” she asks.
    Oh, real classy. “Thirty percent. That’s the standard, right?”
    She smiles and nods. “You can use the one in the office. Just make it quick.”
    I go behind the counter and find the computer. After a little googling on their dial-up Internet connection, I find that the Old Red Museum is in a city called Lincoln. And, good Lord, it’s seventeen hours away. What if I miss the selection process for the Pandora — whatever that is?
    I print off directions and buy several sandwiches and bottles of water on my way out. I leave more than the 30 percent I promised the waitress, hoping it’ll put a little sashay in her step.
    Then I get on the road and drive like a demon toward Nebraska, wondering if I’m a naïve idiot for doing this.

    Almost twenty hours later, I’m nearing the middle of the city. I’m exhausted after the drive, and by now the whole wide world feels surreal and disconnected. Everything is fast and slow at thesame time. I follow the last of the directions until I see it — the Old Red Museum. The picture Google provided matches the enormous redbrick building, which looks more like a medieval castle than a museum. At almost midnight, the place looks particularly eerie.
    I find a parking spot and walk up the short flight of stairs. Rubbing my arms to fight off a sudden chill, I stop in front of the enormous double doors.
    What the hell am I supposed to do now?
    There’s no way this place is open this late. And by the time they do open, it’ll probably be too late. It’s probably too late as is. I hold my breath and tug on the door. It doesn’t budge. I pull again and again, and scream when it still doesn’t open.
    I drove across the US of A, left my family without an explanation, and now I’m either too late or there was never anything here to begin with. Ef my life. Rearing back, I kick the door as hard as I can. Then I wrap both hands around the door handles and let out a noise like a wild banshee as I pull back.
    The doors swing open.
    I’m not sure whether to celebrate or freak out. I decide to do neither and slip inside. As I walk around the inside of the museum, listening to the sound of my footsteps echo off the walls, I imagine I am moments from death. It’s sad, I think, that this is all it takes to break my sanity.
    Two curling flights of stairs bow out from the first-floor lobby, and red and white tiles cover the floors. There are gilded picture frames everywhere. So many that I think the placement of the frames — and not their contents — is the real art. Everything, absolutely everything, smells like wax. I mosey up to an abandoned reception desk and leaf through the glossy pamphlets littering the surface. I hold one of the pamphlets up to my nose. Yep, wax.
    I glance around, having no idea what to look for. Will there be a sign like at school registration? Students with last names starting with A–K this way?
    On my left, I notice a long hallway dotted with doors on either side. Nothing looks particularly unusual. But when I glance to my right, I spot something. There’s a door at the end of the corridor that has a sliver of light glowing beneath it. I’m sure it’s just an administration office, one where someone forgot to flip the switch. But I’ve got nothing better to go on, so I head toward it.
    I pause outside the door, wondering if I’m about to get busted for B and E. Then I turn the