The teen forced a four-inch blade into the dead woman’s thigh. A hooked notch in the knife carved through flesh and fabric with one smooth motion, the visual equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.
“If this was a drug gang? Or convicts?” Kyle’s hoarse whisper fractured and resonated in the air like the sooty ash particles. “But father and son cannibals?”
Bradley’s head was shaking, a pendulum swinging between disbelief and disgust. “And they’re too nonchalant about it—like it’s routine.”
Kyle stared at the pine needles beneath his knee, his mouth filling with bitter saliva. “I can’t watch this. Let’s go.”
“These cannibals are mobile, barely two miles from Sugar Lake. Do you want to worry about this every time Jessie and Abby go to the lake for water?”
Kyle breathed in rapid pants. No air seemed to permeate his lungs.
“You need to make a decision,” Bradley whispered. “Eliminate the threat? Or live with the threat?”
The sound of human flesh sizzling turned Kyle’s stomach. “Why do I have to decide?”
“Because I’ll be gone soon. Take them out? Or take your chances?”
* Moral Dilemma 3C *
Path C: YES, try to eliminate the threat.
Path F: NO, try to live with the threat.
I don’t want to decide.
At the end of “Day 17,” a link will allow you to return to this Moral Dilemma and change your mind—if you must.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
( ( ( PATH 106C ) ) )
106C
“I DON’T WANT TO CHOOSE who lives and dies,” Kyle said, burying his face in his hands, terrified of making the wrong decision. “I wish we’d never stumbled across them.”
“Even if you were blissfully unaware of the cannibals, the danger would still exist.”
Kyle’s mouth dropped open as if to speak, venting only an anguished sigh.
“You can’t wish it away, and you can’t ignore it,” Bradley told him. “And the truth is, you’re gonna have blood on your hands no matter what you do. Your only choice is whose blood. The cannibals? Or all their future victims?”
A numbing sensation settled over Kyle.
Do I want to bear responsibility for killing the guilty? Or for the deaths of innocents?
Unable to rally his voice, he lifted his chin and gave a nod.
Bradley said, “I’ve got the teenager.”
Father and son bounded against the ground, and the nearly concurrent gunshots reverberated around them like a prolonged groan.
Then a haggard, fortyish woman with sunken eyes scrambled from the tent. She drew a trembling hand to her mouth. Head shaking vehemently, her voice raw with grief and desperation, she shrieked, “No-o-o!”
She snatched the bolt-action rifle, the barrel sweeping wildly as if tracking the flight of a honeybee, then she staggered and fell onto her backside, shuddering. She turned the rifle around, butt stock braced against the ground, forehead against the barrel.
Kyle reached out, fingers grasping air as if he could seize the weapon from yards away.
She pulled the trigger, but the gun did not fire.
Unaware the bolt needed to be cycled in order to load a new round, she chucked the rifle and crawled toward her teenaged son. Her expression mutated from grief to revulsion, and her sobs escalated as if his death had been forgotten and rediscovered.
She retrieved the knife. Another tortured scream escaped, then she aligned the tip of the blade to her heart and fell forward, using the ground to plunge the knife deep into her chest.
107C
PUFFY CLOUDS PROJECTED islands of darkness onto Lake Apopka, and the shadows skimmed the water’s surface, propelled by a lazy breeze. A belt of saw grass straddled the boundary between land and water, swishing softly like whispering voices at a wake.
Bradley had been sitting along the shore for half an hour, cloaked behind a tangle of wild bushes, lost somewhere between remorse and a gnawing sense of worry.
Unintended consequences, he thought. Yet on some level he understood that even the right decisions were never painless, never without a vein of regret.
Kyle hadn’t spoken since the incident, eyes fixed and unblinking, skin so pale it seemed nearly translucent. Occasionally, his face contracted like a bellicose fist, as if reliving the grisly event, then relaxed back into detached neutrality.
Lousy timing, Bradley thought. He had deliberately cornered Kyle, forced him into an untenable choice. The wisdom of Gramps’ gentle, diplomatic approach was becoming evident—a little too late.
“For what it’s worth,” Bradley began, “even if you’d chosen to walk away, I would’ve come back and ... taken care of it.”
Kyle’s head tilted. His damning glare bored into Bradley. “Then why did you make me choose? Was this a game to you? Some kind of perverse test?”
“Hell yeah. I wanted to know if you had the balls to protect Abby.”
The words fell in a downpour then mutely sunk in, penetrating imperceptibly like a puddle seeping into earth.
Did I just say protect Abby? Instead of protect your family?
Inexplicably, Kyle began to laugh, an unnerving, inappropriate cackle that made Bradley nervous.
“I ... am such ... an idiot,” Kyle mumbled. “My daughter is surrounded by sharks, and I’m worried about the lifeguard.” He paused to draw in a deep breath. “Girls Abby’s age are being raped on playgrounds; cannibals are butchering people; and I’m worried about my daughter sleeping with you.”
Bradley’s emotions ricocheted like a pinball caught between celebration and apprehension. He wanted to say something, to change the subject, but his words dispersed like jackrabbits spooked by a predator.
“I overreacted when you kissed Abby.” Kyle cleared his throat, magnifying the tension. “Do you love my daughter?”
The question hung thick in the air, an asphyxiating invisible haze. There was no way out, no way around, only through. “Look, Kyle, I didn’t want to. I tried not to. But ... Yeah.”
“And if anything happens to me, you’ll look out for her?”
“Of course,” Bradley said. Hadn’t he been doing that for the past two weeks?
Kyle’s thumb and index finger massaged his closed eyelids then pinched together at the bridge of his nose. “This ... relationship needs to progress on Abby’s timetable—not yours.”
“That goes without saying.” The phrase take advantage was buzzing like a housefly trapped within his skull.
“I know you’re a good man, Bradley. And someday, when you’re a father, you’ll understand.” Kyle hesitated as two sandhill cranes glided gracefully over the lake.
Bradley sighed, sensing the conversation was not finished. The respite was like the eye of a hurricane, a few peaceful seconds before it battered him again.
“I want your word,” Kyle said, attention swooping from the birds back to Bradley, “that you won’t make me a grandfather.”
Air rushed from Bradley’s lungs, and the resulting sound was a Frankensteinlike synthesis of a cough, a groan, and a laugh. “Sir, I will not let that happen.”
“And I don’t want to see any more amorous displays. Use a little discretion.”
“Understood.”
“Then consider this resolved. But you damned well better keep your zipper up ... until she yanks it down.”
Bradley suffocated a smirk generated by the memory of Abby’s probing fingers dragging him into the pool.
“And I don’t care if you are a Marine Corps Sniper,” Kyle told him. “I’ll find some way to kick your ass. Or at least die trying.”
108C
WHEN KYLE RETURNED home, Jessie was in the yard hunched over another of her projects, and the sight was a drizzle of vindication on his inflamed conscience. He would keep his wife and daughter safe—even if he had to march into hell to do it.
“Hey, Beautiful,” he said, squatting beside her. With a curled index finger, he guided her chin upward for a kiss, t
hen his focus returned to her project. She had countersunk a wall oven into the ground, replaced its door with glass from their shower enclosure, and contoured sand around it to support four medicine-cabinet mirrors, each tilted to concentrate rays of sunlight into the insulated metal box.
“A sun oven, what a great idea.” He glanced around the yard then added, “Where’s Abby? We need to have a little chat.”
“She’s in the lanai, cleaning her rifle, but Kyle ... Backing a stubborn person into a corner never ends well.”
“Stubborn? Where do you suppose she got that from?” he asked, teasing his wife.
“I’ll cop to stubborn, if you’ll claim the uncensored mouth.”
“No way. I blame that on her namesake, Great-Grandma Abigail.”
As Kyle opened the screened-room door, Abby was aligning the upper and lower receivers of her rifle. Billy was asleep, curled into a fetal position on the chaise lounge.
“Hey, Sweetie-pie.”
She pushed the locking pins into position, yanked the charging handle, and dry fired, testing the rifle with an empty chamber; then her eyes met his, icy and laced with indignation. “I really hate it when you call me that. Why do you always treat me like I’m five years old?”
He flashed a crooked smile and said, “I think that assessment is a little harsh ... Although, I did overreact when you kissed Bradley.”
Seemingly caught off guard, Abby studied him for a beat. “I’m sorry for antagonizing you this morning. In retrospect, I guess my impulsive reaction wasn’t the most mature way to handle things.”
Kyle opened his arms to her, an invitation eagerly accepted. “I’m sorry too. I guess a part of me just doesn’t want to let you grow up.”
( ( ( 55% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 16C ) ) )
Saturday, March 1st
109C
JUST AFTER SUNRISE, JESSIE hurried down the hill from overwatch, anxious to get to the bathroom. Those six-hour shifts were taxing her bladder; and unlike Kyle, she wasn’t about to relieve herself behind a tree.
As Jessie reached for the retractable screen on the front door, her heart caromed into her throat, trapping a scream, and she nearly wet herself.
Two figures stood in the shadows of the family room. A forearm was wrapped around Abby’s neck. A handgun was pressed against her temple.
Memories of the intruder rushed back.
The raw fear.
The helplessness.
Then Jessie realized Bradley was holding the gun.
What the hell?
Before she could finish the thought, Abby whirled and grabbed the barrel, forcing it away. She leaned left, downward, using her body weight to twist the gun, and knocked Bradley off balance. He tripped over her outstretched leg, tumbled onto a layer of couch cushions, and Abby emerged with the gun trained on him, backing up.
It’s just a self-defense lesson, Jessie thought. Thank God Kyle can’t see this from overwatch.
Bradley was back on his feet, facing Abby, the weapon trained on her chest. This time, Abby’s movements were so fast that Jessie couldn’t discern how she had managed to strip the weapon from his hand.
The lesson devolved into a playful wrestling match. Jessie watched them rolling across the family room floor, laughing as if the entire world hadn’t collapsed around them. She smiled, grateful that in this dangerous new reality, her daughter had managed to find a little happiness.
110C
CAPTAIN RODRIGUEZ continued paging through a file, perusing documents like a speed-reader the entire time Ryan was speaking. The man was an unproven quantity, a baby-faced fortysomething with deep bronze skin, humorless dark eyes, and a reputation as a stickler.
“That’s a serious accusation you’ve leveled against the Corporal,” Rodriguez finally said.
Standing at attention, Ryan felt the first trickle of sweat along his neck, like an advance guard of scouting ants clearing the way for a battalion.
“Look, Staff Sergeant, I would love to prevent another insider attack, but the man is innocent until proven guilty. I can’t ruin his career based solely on your suspicions. Maybe he’s just an unemotional guy.”
Unlike Zugarra, Rodriguez’ features provided no barometer of anger, no indication where his personal red zone began, and Ryan pressed on. “Sir, he wasn’t unemotional over the dead jihadists in Astatula. And the traitorous drone Pilot who attacked Camp Sunshine and facilitated the Patriot battery theft is his cousin. I’m just asking for an investigation—”
“De-nied. Guilt by association is not evidence. And neither is a suspicion based on his Muslim faith.” Rodriguez’ right hand slapped an open personnel file on his desk—Ryan’s file. “I understand there’s some history between you and Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. Is that what this is? Retribution?”
Ryan’s fingers ground into his palms as if crushing the ridiculous question. “No, sir, and with all due respect, I’ve already lost two of my guys through insider attacks. I would be remiss in not reporting my suspicions—”
“Duly noted. Dismissed.”
“You’re not going to investigate a potential traitor, sir?”
“Investigate what?” Rodriguez demanded. “Your perception of the man who reported your insubordination, resulting in your demotion? I will not accuse a man of being a traitor without evidence. Dis-missed.”
111C
WILL SETTLED ONTO THE floor in the Levins’ family room beside Billy. The toddler was steering a truck through an obstacle course constructed from plastic blocks and Matchbox cars. Lips puckered, pushing air between his lips, he sputtered engine sounds.
Will reached for a miniature red Ferrari, and Billy said, “No, Daddy. Groken.”
“How about this one?” he asked, pointing to a yellow Viper.
Billy’s angelic smile dissolved into a brooding line. “No-o-o, Daddy! Groken!”
“Okay which cars aren’t broken?” Will asked.
“Daddy’s gruck.”
He felt uneasiness stir deep in his gut. “Why are all the cars broken?”
“E an G, Daddy. E an G!”
The sentiment was like being doused with ice water. Will had assumed his son was too young to understand, too oblivious to notice the defunct cars, too distracted to eavesdrop on adult conversations regarding the EMP.
Unsure what to say, he watched his son climb to his feet and walk away with the truck clutched in his tiny palm. Will followed him around the kitchen island, past the dining room, through the master bedroom, and into the bathroom. “You have to go wee-wee?”
His facial reaction seemed to question Will’s sanity. “No-o-o ... Gare Mommy?”
Will sunk onto the tiled floor and pulled his son into his arms. “She’s in heaven. Remember?”
For the first time, Will felt a pang of sadness over his wife’s death. Although he’d mourned Suzanne, he had yet to shed a tear for Heather. Rather than grief, her absence had spawned an unexpected sense of relief. The judgment, the blame, the burden of never being good enough—it had all died along with her.
Guilt and shame, however, began tempering that relief, and he wondered what the others thought of his detached reaction. Will knew grief should be glimmering in his eyes and resounding in his voice, a loss so profound it should be felt like a physical presence. He wanted to feel bereft over losing his wife; and the fact that he didn’t was a testimony to his miserable marriage.
Billy fidgeted. His truck began motoring over Will’s neck. “Ghen her come home?”
The uneasiness in his gut ignited into a burning pain. “Mommy loves you,” he said, his voice faltering. “And she wants to come home. More than anything ... But she can’t.” Warm beads of regret began to trickle down his cheeks because his son would grow up without knowing the love of his mother.
112C
MAURICE ROSHAN AL-KAHTANI catapulted off the flight deck of the U.S.S. Ramer in an F-22 Raptor. He looked down onto the inky black ocean which merged seamlessly into the night sky, clusters of sta
rlight the only visual indicators distinguishing up from down.
He would not falter like his brother, Omar, who had failed to neutralize the desalination system aboard the U.S.S. Axelson. Despite rumors implicating Navy SEALs in his murder, Maurice knew that Omar had nobly ended his own life in order to protect the identities of the special forces of jihad.
With a tranquil voice, he requested an emergency landing, citing the onset of hypoxia, a claim no one would question given the F-22’s shady track record. Cockpits were only partially pressurized due to the threat of bullet strikes; and that, combined with high-altitude missions, forced Pilots to rely on full-body pressure suits and respiration systems. Both technologies had notorious reputations for inducing hypoxia—a lack of oxygen to the brain that decreased alertness and caused loss of consciousness—and were presumed responsible for at least eight crashes.
The carrier was barely visible through the turbid blackness. Faint dashes of light outlined the runway, and two brighter patches designated the island, the ship’s superstructure that rose like a skyscraper above the flight deck.
Maurice aligned the aircraft with the set of landing lines. By the time flight control realized something was wrong, he would be unstoppable.
Via radio, he was advised to correct his glide slope—his path of descent.
Maurice ignored it.
The Landing Signal Officer waved him off, but he refused to abort his approach.
Closing on the Ramer, he advanced the throttle to maximum power.
The Verse of the Sword chanted through his mind.
“Kill those who join other gods with God wherever ye shall find them, and lay wait for them with every kind of ambush.”
The ship’s island grew larger, like a steel dragon rising from the blackness, a dragon he would slay for Allah in a 9/11-esque attack.
Maurice banked the plane; and it happened so rapidly, he never felt the seismic impact, never heard the roar of the jet striking the superstructure, never saw the blinding fireball leap into the night sky like the carrier’s fiery last breath.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 67