I was three feet from the fire hydrant when it exploded. Billowing clouds of scalding water shot a hundred of feet into the air. Rain began to fall, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Leastways there wasn’t before the fire hydrant lifted off.
Who knows where the hydrant itself went; maybe to the moon for all I know. I cared only about getting out of the way in time to avoid that boiling rain. It sizzled against the sidewalk as it fell, narrowly missing my exposed flesh. My minimalist running garb left me unprepared for the emergency facing me.
I twisted and bolted, back towards the park and water service station. One rarely saw anyone out running this early in the morning, even someone training for soccer, but a seven-thirty orthodontic appointment necessitated my early start. Now I stretched my tired muscles and bolted for the safety of the greenbelt.
I heard the wail of sirens in the distance as I sprinted though this quiet suburban neighborhood. Steam billowed all around, and I fought to escape the suffocating prison. Arms flailed about, attempting to clear my line of sight. Sweat poured down my face and my heart pumped beloved oxygen through my veins. I hesitated to take a long draw at my water bottle before blazing away again. What was going on?
Then I heard the squeal of tires. Glancing back, I saw the flashing of policeman’s lights. A voice boomed after me, demanding that I stop. I didn’t, perhaps the first time I ever disobeyed an officer of a law. Someone blamed me for the hydrant, I guessed. The wailing siren wailed louder. I ran harder, putting all my energy into an all out sprint for my dignity.
The curb came up quickly. I nearly stumbled but managed to keep my feet. I ran like a deer fleeing a mountain lion, with the lion closing in. I busted out towards the water plant. A hundred yards, fifty, twenty-five open lay before me as I closed the distance. The police cruiser was attempting to jump the curb and follow me on the grass. I leaped, gathering all my momentum and channeling it into a magnificent leap. My hands caught the top of the chain link fence and I vaulted over. I dropped my bottle in the process, and I momentarily regretted the loss. But worse problems lay behind.
A big bunch of buildings connected by pipes above- and below-ground made up the water works. The buildings housed filtering stations, pumping machines, and other such places. I noticed a big truck parked out back of the pumping station, attached to the nondescript building by a thick metal hose. I thought little of it, and hoped that the staff wouldn’t call the cops or turn me in. If they did, I’d sue.
The police had reached the compound, now busy working on the lock. I scooted behind the pumping station and hid under the truck. Seeing no one about, I took the time to look at this truck. It had some sort of switch board along the side of the rear right fender, and a dial marked in pounds. Odd, I thought, since the pressure control and pumping ought to take place inside the pumping station. Then, on a hunch, I turned the first valve all the way up. The second dial I also turned up to the max. All the other switches I flipped off.
I heard the grinding of metal on metal, the sound of policemen filing through the bars. Now I slipped inside the unlocked door of the pumping station, quietly and hopefully unnoticed by anyone watching or listening. I had a pretty good Idea of what was going on here. If I caught my suspected crooks in here, the cops might let me go.
Two men worked at some sort of switch board inside the station house. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their gestures and postures indicated agitation. Completely engrossed with watching some sort of display, they fiddled with some level indicators marked in pounds. The men, though dressed in city uniforms, seemed to be anything but. Greasy hair, dark eyes and haggard faces: classic bad guy.
Three wheels sat on the wall opposite these two wise guys. One was marked ‘incoming’ the second ‘outgoing’ and the third simply ‘internal pressure.’ Sliding over to the wall I tested the ‘incoming’ wheel. It was turned hard left, meaning that whatever valve it controlled was closed. The ‘outgoing’ was completely open and the ‘internal pressure’ was also completely open. A completely crazy idea took hold of me.
Fortunately the greased wheels made little noise and the sound of rushing water drowned out what few squeaks there were. The ‘incoming’ valve I opened completely, the ‘outgoing’ valve closed, and I left the pressure the same; at the highest. The note of the rushing water changed, and the two guys glanced back at me, or rather they glanced at the wheels and saw me. Looks of shock crossed their faces.
One bolted for me, the other for the tanker. I ran after the first guy, and managed a flying tackle. Then the second guy was on top of me. Here we wrestled, me throttling the one hood, his partner throttling me. Then someone shouted the sweetest words I ever heard: “You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.” The police had both made it through the gate and with backup. After pulling in several deep breaths, I stood and grasped both men by the back of the neck. Leading them thus, we advanced out into the sunlight.
Of course they had to arrest me. The other two claimed that I had assaulted them and had tried to resist. However, their obvious agitation made the officer suspicious. When he made a move to go investigate the pumping building, the two tried to stop him. I’ll never know what would have happened next. Instead, I was vindicated in a most spectacular way. First the filtering building shuddered. Then the underground pump leading to the pumping station blew, sending sod flying into the air. Finally the pumping house itself exploded in a shower of scalding water, the force of the blast sending the filling truck end-over-end three times before stopping at the fence.
Two hours later, hopelessly late for my orthodontic appointment, my mom took me home. I had endured an hour of questioning and another forty-five minutes of informing. Apparently, these two fine citizens were terrorists. They had filled this truck full of boiling water, equipped the apparatus with a pump and, worst of all, ten one-gallon tanks of anthrax spores. The setup was intended to send the anthrax spores around the city via the steam in the water system. By some miracle, since I chose to turn off all ten of the pumps to these tanks, I rendered them useless to the terrorists. As for the fire hydrant, the police determined that a faulty bolt had caused it to blow early. Then, while leaving the police station, the police chief pulled me aside to bestow a tidbit of simple advice:
“Son, the next time you decide to go on a run, please don’t.”
