Crossing Over

by Paul Clayton

  Table Of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Crossing Over

  Copyright © 2018 by Paul Clayton. All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  To Stephen Gallup, friend and editor, author of What About the Boy? and James N. Frey, friend and mentor, author of How to Write a Damn Good Novel

  I

  Mike McNerney’s wife didn’t like the idea of him going, but he’d insisted, wanting to witness firsthand what happened at these, almost-daily, political protests. He turned the volume on the AM radio in the truck all the way up as he drove. The signal was weak; the station was rogue, over a hundred miles away, changing location daily. Three months earlier, the New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Maine State Guard units had formed a bloc, the Liberty League, loosely aligning themselves with the radical Revolutionary Peoples’ Party, the RPP. They favored the government of the newly-declared president. Then, West Virginia, Tennessee, Kentucky, North and South Carolina, Alabama, Georgia and some counties in Virginia, combined their State Guard units, called themselves the Minute Men, and declared allegiance to the recently-ousted president and national government in exile.

  As Mike came into the outskirts of town he passed the North Side shopping center. He turned on Main and was surprised to see a light through the tinted glass of the long-closed Atlas Hardware. He drove past and saw one of the front glass doors off the hinges and lying on the pavement. A small fire burned in the center of the building with a few individuals moving about it… transients and homeless. Hopefully the authorities would roust them soon.

  He parked a block from the town center and locked the truck. Walking slowly walked toward the square, he was surprised at how few pedestrians he saw. The gravel lot where the Provident Bank once stood was usually filled with Flea Market vendors and shoppers. Now it was empty, perhaps in anticipation of trouble. Turning the corner, he could hear drumming and a protest chant of some kind. He saw a small crowd of about thirty or so people near the fountain. He approached, watching them milling about—mostly white, with a few blacks and Hispanics. Surprisingly, about a quarter of them were female. All of them looked to be in their twenties or thirties. They wore dark clothing and carried backpacks. Many wore hoodies and had bandanas around their necks that could be pulled up to hide their faces.

  Before the government had shut down the TV stations, Mike had watched a couple of protests, but the footage was always severely edited and you could never tell what really happened. Everything in the country, from cuisine to music, the weather, had become hyper-political and vehemently argued over. Simple truth, so-called common sense and values, and dialogue had died in the last five or so years.

  “They’re coming,” announced a big, tough-looking young woman pointing south on Federal Street.

  Mike turned and saw the protestors, about a dozen of them, mostly middle-aged people, walking slowly toward them carrying flags and placarded signs.

  The counter-protestors formed up into a loose group and a middle-aged man with a full beard, evidently their leader, addressed them in low tones that Mike couldn’t decipher. Finishing, he led the group closer to Federal Street. The protestors began filing by, looking over in surprise at the crowd gathered to watch them.

  They chanted as they walked, “God and Freedom, U-S-A, everyone must have their say!”

  Someone among the town counter-protestors threw a rock, striking a man on the arm. He looked up worriedly but continued to march slowly behind the others.

  “Go back where you belong, Fucktards!” a young, male counter-protestor shouted.

  Mike watched in fascination, then looked around, wondering where the police were. He thought he saw a squad car a block away, but it appeared to be parked. He saw no police officers. He returned his gaze to the marchers. One woman’s sign proclaimed, LEAVE MY PRESIDENT ALONE!

  “Get the fuck out of here, Granny,” shouted one of the hooded young men, “before you get your ass kicked!”

  Mike’s face was pinched with concern for the little group marching through, and anger toward them as well, for having put themselves at risk.

  Most of the marchers passed the crowd of counter-protestors without incident. A man in his mid-fifties brought up the rear. He had fallen slightly behind. FREE SPEECH, his sign proclaimed, USE IT, OR LOSE IT. He looked up at the bearded leader of the counter protestors and paused. “You’re old enough to know what’s at stake here,” he shouted. “Why don’t you join us?”

  The counter-protestors began chanting, “Racist, Fascist, Homophobe, we’re gonna pound you in the road.”

  Undeterred, the man shouted up, “Tell them to stand down. You know better. Join us.”

  The bearded leader ignored him, turning and walking away.

  Mike didn’t want to get involved, but felt compelled to shout at the protestor. “What good is this doing? This isn’t going to change anyone’s mind. You’ll just stir things up.”

  The man’s eyes found Mike’s. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Freedom, brother… Use it or lose it!”

  Mike said nothing further. The sign-holding man turned and saw that his fellow protestors had moved on. He started walking to catch up but the counter-protestors quickly and stealthily surrounded him. Mike followed along at the edge of the crowd.

  The man looked around at the crowd. His stern look was crumbling, turning to one of fear. “What is it about free speech that scares you people?” he said shrilly.

  The crowd drew closer around him, mere feet away.

  A short, stocky man wearing a black, watch cap pushed to the fore. “You mean ‘hate speech,’” he said, “don’t you, motherfucker?”

  “No. I mean free speech.”

  “Fuck you, racist!” screamed one of the women, “we know what you mean!”

  Mike felt the electric tension rising. All eyes were on the man with the sign. Mike looked back again to see where the police were. There weren’t any.

  The counter-protestor in the watch cap stepped right up into the protestor’s face. “Hate speech ain’t free, motherfucker,” he said. “There’s a price.”

  Before the protestor could answer the man in the cap sucker punched him full in the face. Blood gushed from his nose and he dropped his sign. The other counter-protestors began pummeling him from every direction, knocking him to the ground.

  “Stop!” shouted Mike. “Wait!”

  Shouts and cries from the victim’s fellow protestors came from the distance as they began making their way back.

  The counter-protestors continued to kick and stomp the man as he rolled about, attempting to protect his body. A young man built like a football player ran forward and kicked the man’s head—a punter going for a field goal. The man stopped moving. Emboldened, others on the fringe of the crowd ran forward to quickly stomp on the man’s inert form and dance away in mock fright. Several men from both
groups now faced off and traded blows as some of the protestors knelt to the unconscious man. Feeling numb, Mike turned away and walked back in the direction of his truck.

  II

  Mike listened to the radio in the kitchen as he made a pot of coffee. He hoped to hear more about the fighting, how close things were getting. He had a family to protect. His wife, Marie, hardly ever listened to the news. It upset her too much. One of them had to know what was going on.

  He leaned toward the radio, straining to hear the broadcaster’s voice over the static. The news wasn’t good: A Pennsylvania Air National Guard jet had just been shot down over the Pennsylvania/Maryland border. The Liberty League was now promising to shoot down two of the Minute Men’s planes for every one they lost. A food riot in Philly had turned racial, with people being hunted down by mobs and beaten to death. In Minneapolis, the two sides had recently squared off against each other at an RPP rally. That was only a hundred and fifty miles away. And, of course, there was the rally in town the day before that he had witnessed. He would have to talk with Marie about making serious plans to get him, her and their daughter, Elly, to a safer place. Some of the people in the neighborhood had already moved north to the countryside.

  As Mike listened he became aware of Marie’s steps on the stairs. He turned and smiled as she entered the kitchen. “Just in time,” he said.

  Marie frowned at the droning radio. “Do we have to have that on all the time?”

  He clicked it off. “Not all the time, but there are some new, concerning reports.”

  “What happened at that protest you went to yesterday?” she said.

  Mike blinked thoughtfully. “Not much. Just two bunches of people shouting at each other for a while.”

  “Carol came by after dinner last night when you were working in the back yard. She said a man was badly injured and is in a coma.”

  “Well,” said Mike, “there was some fighting, but I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t know anyone got hurt that bad.”

  Marie shook her head. “It’s awful.”

  The coffee machine beeped and Mike smiled sadly. “The coffee’s ready.”

  She came to him and put her arm around him. “Not too strong, I hope.”

  He shook his head. “Just the way you like it.” He pulled her close and kissed her. She responded and they both felt an awakening of passion. “I wish we would have done that last night,” he said. “Could have been the start of something.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “I know. It’s just that I’m so tired lately with everything that’s happening. And when I finally do manage to fall asleep, it’s not very good.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, kissing her again. “I understand.” Their kisses went deeper. Through half-closed eyelids he saw Elly come into the room and burst out in bright laughter, saying, “Kissy face, kissy face.”

  Mike and Marie laughed uncomfortably.

  “Okay,” said Marie, “enough of that. C’mon, Elly. Help me set the table.”

  Mike smiled as he watched Elly take the cups out of the cupboard. He couldn’t help taking stock of her as she set them on the table. She was already an inch taller than her mother, and at sixteen, she likely had more growing to do. She had the body and face of a teen model, and the mind of a child of eleven or twelve. Normally of good temper, she was the source of much joy and wonderment for Mike and Marie, but also worry. Her beauty turned heads wherever they went, especially male heads.

  Mike sat and dropped two tablets of saccharin into his coffee. He stirred it, watching it fizz faintly white, his mind clouding over in thought. You couldn’t get sugar anymore, nor honey. They hadn’t seen either in over six months.

  Marie shook some government-rationed corn flakes from a brown cardboard box into Elly’s bowl and her own, then poured over it some canned milk she’d cut with water.

  Elly opened the sugar bowl and stuck her spoon in, digging about. “Aw,” she crooned childishly, “still no sugar?”

  “Sorry,” said Marie over her coffee cup,

  “No honey either?” said Elly, as if Mike and Marie were holding out on her.

  “No,” said Marie. “You want to go shopping with me today after your lessons? Maybe we can find some.”

  “Yeah, Mommy,” she said, her tone brighter.

  Mike smiled benignly. Such exchanges were their norm and of no note. But when they went out, Elly’s childlike behavior elicited inquisitive looks and smiles. There had always been hints that she would have deficits, but the retardation had become undeniable when she was six and in school. She couldn’t keep up with the other kids. They put her in Special Ed and that had helped. But her most worrisome trait became evident when she would play in the front yard or on the street in front of the house. She was overly-friendly with the neighbors, stopping them to talk. And she had a total lack of fear of strangers, often calling out to them when she was riding her bike on the street. Mike’s heart ached as he recalled his little girl at twelve or so, her breasts already budding, her hips developing, sitting on her bicycle under her Disney Aladdin helmet, calling out to the occasional stranger walking by while Mike watched protectively from in front of the house. Once he’d had to pursue Elly as she followed an older man who was walking his dog down the street. When Mike caught up to them, she turned and said, “He’s gonna let me walk his dog.”

  Mike stared at the man angrily.

  “I never told her that,” the stranger protested, “I just told her I’d think about it.”

  Marie broke into his thoughts. “It’s nice out today.”

  He nodded and glanced out the window. “Yeah. But the temperature is supposed to drop down to the forties tonight. Winter’s on its way.”

  “That’s good,” said Elly. “Maybe it will snow.” She looked brightly at her father. “If it snows can you help me make a snowman?”

  Mike and Marie laughed.

  “Of course,” said Mike. “Maybe you could start getting the stuff we’ll need ready, like gloves, buttons for eyes and nose … coal.”

  “Yeah,” said Elly with wonder. She frowned as she placed her spoon in her bowl and pushed it to the center of the table. “I wonder where Charley is. I miss him.”

  Mike wondered too. Their little border collie had been missing for three days. Other dogs had probably killed him. With the food shortages and pet-abandonments, there were packs of feral dogs running around. “Well,” he said, trying to sound hopeful, even though he wasn’t, “maybe he’ll show up today.”

  “All right, Elly,” said Marie. “We’ll look for him later. Now you can help me clean up.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Marie put Elly to work folding the laundry she’d brought in off the clothes line. She thought of the relatively new dryer they had, but rarely used, due to the price of natural gas. Still, they were better off than a lot of folks, given the news reports and the stories told by the neighbors about the strangers passing through town. And there was something fulfilling about the added chores they had now. They brought them together as a family.

  Marie went out to the backyard and took down the supports for the tomatoes and beans that they’d grown and canned. She bundled up the stakes and laid them by the door for Mike to put away in the shed. She thought of their embrace in the kitchen before Elly interrupted them. Mike was right. They hadn’t made love in a while, maybe three weeks. And they’d had opportunities. But what she told him was true; she was often just too tired. It wasn’t the extra work; it was the worry. She couldn’t understand how people could let their differences come to a head like this. It boiled down to a lack of leadership at the top on both sides.

  Sighing, she looked at the empty house next door and wondered about Charley. Elly missed him a lot. She headed for the detached garage. Maybe Charley had holed up in there for some reason.

  The light was muted, the air musty. She walk
ed the length of the truck camper to the roll-up door, looking under the shelves. A plastic bin hid most of a darkened space and she tugged on it, sliding it out scratchily. She heard the sound of fabric slipping off of something and stood. A set of intense, angry eyes under a hooded face fixed on her as a wild-looking young man sat up.

  Mike was in the back shed getting his work gloves and equipment. On the radio the week before he had heard that there would be natural gas shortages this winter and he had decided to cut down one of the two maple trees in the back yard for firewood. He was lifting an axe off the shelf when Marie screamed from the direction of the garage. He bounded out the door, axe in hand.

  The back door to the garage was open as Mike ran in. Marie stood between the Ford camper and the long work bench. She had evidently surprised someone sleeping on top of the workbench. A thuggish-looking white kid wearing a hooded sweat shirt zipped halfway down, tattoos up to his jawline, slid off the bench as Mike came up.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Mike demanded. For a moment he thought he saw cunning in the youth’s eyes, then hurt. The smoky grey eyes slid smoothly from Mike’s face to Marie’s.

  “Sorry, man. I just needed a place to rest. I’ll be going, okay?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” said Marie. “I was looking for Charley and when I thought I saw something behind the trash bin, I pulled it out to get a closer look.” She looked at Mike. “And he sat up and that’s what scared me.”

  Mike stared at the teen. He had a sparse fuzzy beard and acne on his cheeks. He didn’t seem particularly strong or threatening, but there had been reports of teen thugs travelling in gangs. Mike recalled the squatters around their fire inside the Atlas Hardware. This one probably had friends around somewhere.

  “Yeah,” said Mike, “well, he can’t stay in here. I’ll see him to the gate.”

  The teen straightened up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He was a couple inches taller than Mike. His pants were, of course, sagging. He was lean, but muscled. He rubbed the slight hollow of his stomach lazily. “Y’all got any food? I ain’t had nothin’ to eat in a day.”