In the Neighborhood
By Huston Lowell


Gary brought the car to a stop and rolled down the window.
“Hey,” he said to the cop directing traffic, “What’s going on?”
Nate craned his neck to see the cop’s strained face.
“Neighborhood’s being evacuated,” the cop barked back, then pointed crisply in the direction of the detour. “Get going.”
Back on the main drag, Gary pulled into a McDonald’s and stopped.
“It’s getting late. Mom’s gonna be really PO’d when she finds out,” Nate said nervously, “Maybe we should call her.”
“Dude,” Gary said, “we jacked her ride, and we’re not even remotely where she told us to be. We’ve still got some time to get home before she does. Let’s get some burgers and think.”
The News Channel One traffic helicopter flew directly overhead toward the neighborhood. A Blackhawk rose up out of the neighborhood and blocked its path, sending it back the direction it had come.
“Come on, Gary,” Nate whined, “This looks serious. Let’s call Mom.”
“No,” Gary said, “It’s probably nothing. We’ll be on our way home in no time.”
Gary ordered burgers and cokes and pulled around to the first window. While he fished around in his pocket for exact change, Nate dipped his head to make eye contact with the bored girl in the window.
“Excuse me?” he said, “Have you heard anything about what’s going on with the neighborhood over there?”
The zitty girl’s eyes lit up at an opportunity to spread some gossip.
“I don’t know,” she said, “They started roping it off and evacuating everybody a couple hours ago. This one army guy bought some fries a few minutes ago, and he said there’s some kind of a leak. Kinda freaky.”
While they talked, a convoy of four military eighteen-wheelers covered with olive tarps rolled past the McDonald’s. The back end of the tarp on the last one flapped back in the wind for just a second, exposing part of a small armored vehicle of some kind with treads.
They sat on the hood of the car in the parking lot to eat their burgers and drink their cokes, facing the neighborhood.
“Okay, Genius,” Nate said, watching the three Blackhawks hover over the neighborhood, “how do you propose we get Mom’s ride back home before she notices, now?”
“I don’t know, Nate,” Gary said in a spiteful parody of his younger brother’s whine, “Come on, Gary. It’s a once in a lifetime experience, Gary. You’ve got a licence, Gary. I just want to see the animals before they tear the place down next week, Gary.”
Gary hopped off the hood and started walking off toward the neighborhood.
“Come on, Gary,” Nate said, following him into a thin stand of trees, between parking lots, “Don’t do this. Up until now, everything’s been so great. The animals. The people watching. Street musicians. Even the burgers and cokes. Besides, you know I couldn’t’ve talked you into it if you hadn’t wanted to go.”
Gary popped the last bite of his burger into his mouth. Nate was right. The burgers were pretty good. He was going to miss them.
“You know that’s not the point, though.” The last of Gary’s rage petered out as the last bite of burger finished sliding down his gullet. “You always have the ideas, and I’m always the one who gets it when Mom goes nonlinear. You know? It’s not going to be any different this time.”
“I’m sorry, Gary,” Nate said softly. “Let’s give it a try. Your plan, I mean. Maybe neither one of us has to get it.”
Gary didn’t have a plan. Nate was the one who came up with plans. Gary hated that, but he didn’t want to let his goofy little brother feel smarter than he was.
“Let’s get back in the car,” Gary said, getting out a set of keys. Without looking, his thumb knew habitually which button to center itself over. “We’ll just try to find another way. How hard can it be?"
“Gary, wait!” Nate’s eyes bugged out, and he reached out for Gary’s hand. “Those are the wrong--”
Too late. Gary pressed the button. Both boys felt sick, when the familiar whir started. Seconds later, a silver disk the size of a dump truck sprung into the air and hovered over the neighborhood.
“Keys,” Nate finished his sentence.
“Wait. This may not be bad,” Gary said with a gleam of hope, stabbing another button on the key fob, “Maybe we can just--”
The Blackhawks launched missiles at the saucer. In a matter of seconds it became a fireball and plummeted to the ground.
“Or not.” Gary grabbed the bridge of his nose. A wicked migraine was on its way. “Do you suppose insurance will cover that?”
“I kinda doubt it,” Nate said.
“Mom’s gonna be PO’d,” Gary said with a sort of surreal numbness.
“Yeah. Really PO’d,” Nate said, still watching the flames rise from the middle of the neighborhood, ”We’re kinda hosed.”
“You want to call her?” Gary asked sheepishly, “She likes you better.”
“Not me, man. Do you know anybody else who could give us a lift before the demolition crew gets here?”


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"Huston Lowell lives in Eastern Missouri with a wife and a house full of kids. He has written screenplays for three award-winning indie films and has had his work showcased under various pseudonyms in venues across the webverse, including most recently Poor Mojo's Almanac(k). His favorite author is Trevanian, and his favorite color is red."