Starstruck Hero
Bev Robitai
A spin-off story from the novel Sunstrike
Copyright Bev Robitai 2013
As the highway narrowed after the passing lane, Clint Bergham groaned aloud and took his foot off the accelerator, resigned to another seven minutes of traffic tedium until the next opportunity to overtake. The grey BMW ahead of him had been in his sights from just outside Hamilton and he was damned if he’d let the guy reach Auckland ahead of him.
This month’s business trip had gone well, he thought. He’d been wheeling and dealing just like Michael Douglas in Wall Street, sounding smooth but going in hard on the deal to get the terms he wanted. Now he was driving home like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder, weaving expertly around the traffic while keeping a watchful eye out for the law.
He followed the grey BMW through Huntly and came up close behind him as the road widened into an expressway. Fields and trees sped past in a blur, with flashes of water along the river as he headed towards the big city. Driving alone was so much more fun than driving with his wife who was forever complaining that he went too fast. He planted a heavy foot on the accelerator and roared past the BMW pretending he was Jason Statham in The Transporter.
His fixation on films was his mother’s fault. She’d named him after a sexy young Clint Eastwood who’d been a rising movie star in 1968 when her baby boy was born. Having the dull married name of Bergham she had been determined to give her child a glamorous Hollywood star’s Christian name. It was unfortunate Mr Eastwood was now a wrinkled prune of a man just when Clint himself was reluctant to face up to his approaching fifties. Still, the habit of behaving like a movie star had carried him through most situations in life so far.
He checked his rear-view mirror for any sign of Smokeys and sped up to twenty over the limit.
He was all set to beat his best time record for the journey, but just as he entered the southern part of Auckland, his car suddenly and inexplicably slowed down. The sound of the engine stopped and the stereo went dead. Clint pumped on the gas pedal frantically, certain he’d be hit by following traffic, but when he looked round all the other cars were slowing down as well.
His silent Toyota came to a halt. He sat for a moment in disbelief, turning his ignition key time after time with no result.
Since all the drivers around him were getting out of their stalled cars, he got out too and checked his oil and water to make sure they hadn’t caused the problem. He was baffled. What script could he follow for this situation?
“What the hell’s going on?” It was the driver of the grey BMW three cars behind, florid and flustered, asking anyone who would listen.
Clint replaced the dipstick and wiped his hands.
“What the hell’s going on?” repeated the fretful BMW driver. “Why have we stopped for no apparent reason? Something in the fuel?”
Nobody had an answer.
Clint looked around. Just behind where they’d stopped, a row of power pylons loomed across the road and down the valley where they disappeared into the chilly morning mist.
“We should wait with our cars for a tow truck to come, don’t you think?” An elderly woman looked to the others for approval. But before Clint could select an appropriate role in which to answer her, a loud crackling noise burst out causing a collective gasp from among the assembled drivers and passengers. All eyes turned to the high-voltage electrical cables above their heads which were exploding violently in showers of sparks. Everyone scattered from beneath the lines, taking shelter wherever they could. Flames raced along the wires, filling the air with an acrid stench of burnt plastic and oil. Smoking debris rained down as sections of cable fell from the pylons.
“Don’t touch them,” shouted Clint. “They could be live.” He vaulted over the concrete median barrier and raced towards a stand of trees where he broke off a branch. “Stand back! I’ll take it from here.” He’d seen Steve McQueen do something similar in Towering Inferno.
Using the branch, he pushed smouldering cables away from cars while their drivers picked themselves up from the ditch where they’d dived for cover.
As the cries of fear and excitement slowly subsided, a young woman stared at her phone, baffled. She shook it doubtfully.
“Has anyone got a phone that’s working?” she called. “Only mine’s dead and I need to ring my Mum to say I’ll be late. I’m supposed to take her to a job interview in an hour and she HAS to be there.”
Those nearest to her pulled out their electronic devices but all shook their heads after tapping on screens and pressing buttons. It seemed phones as well as cars were out of action.
After half an hour of fruitless discussion and speculation about their circumstances Clint held up a hand.
“I’m going to walk into the city,” he said decisively. “There’s no point in staying here.’ He gestured towards the clogged highway. “Nobody’s going to get through that lot any time soon. We might as well go where we’re going on foot.”
Voices were raised in alarm.
“But we can’t just leave our cars on the road!”
“It’s way too far to walk! I can’t do it in these shoes!”
“I’m waiting till the authorities get here. It’s irresponsible to walk away.”
Clint, the man of action, shrugged. “You can stay here or come with me – I don’t care either way. Good luck everyone.”
He pulled his briefcase from the back seat of his car and walked away, pointing the lock button over his shoulder, but there was no answering blip from the car which rather spoiled the effect.
He set off along the motorway past the lines of stationary cars, joining others who had decided to abandon their vehicles and strike out on foot. They marched quietly. Conversation seemed pointless.
As Clint rounded the next bend in the road a view of the plains opened up to the left and a gasp rose from the walkers as they saw the vista beside them. Two more rows of power pylons stood in smoking ruins right across the plains and several grass fires had started where the smouldering cables had fallen onto dry ground. There was no sign of fire crews arriving to put them out and Clint realised with a chill that fire trucks were probably just as disabled as every other vehicle.
They stood and watched as in the distance, a fire in a paddock burned nearer and nearer to a white wooden farmhouse. They could just make out the tiny figures of the occupants as they dipped buckets into a water trough and desperately dampened around their home.
There was a groan from the watchers on the road as slowly, inevitably, the building caught alight.
They moved on.
Compared with driving, the trip seemed to take forever.
Clint passed the time by working out how long it might take him to reach the harbour bridge. Once he was through the city and onto the bridge, he’d be almost home. His mind, as always, turned to movies. Bridge on the River Kwai? No, it was far too cold to imagine he was in a tropical environment. A Bridge Too Far? Yes, that was better. He straightened his back and marched briskly, swinging his arms with near-military precision. He’d lead his men across enemy territory against all odds and take the bridge. His increased pace took him away from the group he’d been walking with so he carried on alone.
A man, walking alone through the landscape.
Off to his left, a line of pines showed at the crest of a low hill, standing like sentinels watching his progress. Injuns! His hand reached for an imaginary six-gun. At the base of the hill an old brown horse grazed, unconcerned. Clint’s eyes widened. Could he vault the fence, tame the animal and ride it bareback into the city? What an entrance that would make. He looked down regretfully at his smart grey business suit. Perhaps not. He’d really need leather chaps to make it work. Besides, his only experience on h
orseback had been an incident in his childhood that he preferred to forget. The toothmarks were still an embarrassment.
He walked on with an unconscious John Wayne swagger and caught up with another small set of walkers. They were plodding quietly, heads down, focused on covering the distance to their destination. Clint assessed them as a possible posse and moved to the head of the group.
Once they reached the city the enormity of the event – whatever it was – became clear. Along every stretch of highway cars were stopped in place, right across on-ramps, off-ramps, flyovers and underpasses. Hundreds of other baffled motorists were reacting in the same way – talking, waiting or walking away.
As Clint walked along the overpass through the city he saw movement high in an office building beside the road. A long white banner of some sort was fluttering from a window where he could see faces and waving hands.
“Christ, I